In The Beginning
by Batteredpen
Summary: How the events of the first ever episode may have seemed to those not on the Grid. Certain characters, the storyline and script belong to Kudos. Interpretation and other inventions belong to me.
1. Chapter 1: Red Flash

_**Having written three stories set firmly after 10.6 I felt like a change. This is the story of episode 1.1 but as it might have appeared to characters off the Grid. Most of them we did see, sometimes fleetingly. They are people who, for the most part, would never know the full story and therefore interpret it very differently. In some instances I've used parts of the script that were altered or never seen on screen but have made up my own back stories etc. I've also adopted a variety of different formats to tell their individual tales. **_

**_I know that in the early episodes the Counter Terrorism Department was designated Section B not D but I've stuck to D. As it would be impossible to make sense of this story without reference to the Grid scenes I've usually opted to hold it together through Harry's Operational Notes - the type he might make to keep track of this operation when he has a number of others on the go at the same time. I've also included what might be his private thoughts. _****_ Thanks to Antonia Caenis for giving me the dates from Harry's Diary. However the timing in the Diary covers 2-5May while the script timing covers 2-6th May therefore for the final chapters I've opted for the script times. _****_The Harry here is the younger brasher version not the ground down character of the later series. _**

_**Explanation over, the first chapter features three of our main spooks and starts as all spooks stories should with a red flash. **_

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"Oh Shag."

Dragged out of his early morning slumber Harry Pearce was swearing aloud. A call at this hour of the morning was never good news. When the text that danced before his sleep deprived eyes included the word _'Ireland'_ it was positively evil, especially given Harry's past history with that troubled province. Years in the Service meant that Harry was normally able to spring out of bed and into action at the first ring of trouble. Depressingly it was about the only bedroom action he ever experienced these days, or rather nights. Not for the first time he wondered whether to be relieved or regretful that, despite the size of his bed - king sized equipped with high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and duck down duvet - he usually slept alone**. **Occasionally he thought some casual company would be nice, more than nice in fact. This morning he felt particular sorrowful at the absence of a feminine body in his bed**,** having been the subject of some not very subtle blandishments from an attractive blonde he'd met at the utterly boring reception he'd been forced to attend the previous evening. While, with the arrival of the dawn, he couldn't be bothered to dredge his memory for her name - murmured seductively into his ear while his immediate attention had been distracted by her more obvious assets - as he recalled she'd been rather more decorative than the self important politicians milling around trying to impress, and was offering an infinitely more enticing nibble than anything the canapés could provide. A few years previously he undoubtedly would have flirted in kind, supplying her with drink, gradually charming her to the point of proposition with the full intention, if successful, of heading for the bland anonymity of a hotel room complete with a legend for the register and a supply of safety first condoms in his wallet for more intimate protection. Unfortunately though the blonde had been introduced to him under his own name, and bringing an unknown woman back to share his comfortably furnished minimalist bedroom was a security breach that Harry the risk taker wasn't prepared to contemplate despite the rising pressure within his trousers. As Head of Section D Harry was forced to set a reluctant example in respect of permission to socialise forms, something that had rarely bothered his head, or any other part of his anatomy, prior to his elevation into the crimsoned majesty of the goldfish bowl office: a metaphor in architectural form for the removal of his jealously cherished privacy, personal and professional. Of course he had occasionally obeyed the red taped protocol in earlier times, notably when, as a junior case officer, he'd embarked on his disaster of a marriage, but since then, whenever the hormones moved him to enjoy a one night stand with a female not in the employ of the service, he'd relied on using a false id for his cover, less bother and less embarrassing, but possessed of a certain illicit piquancy to spice up the fun.

Forcing himself upright Harry recalled that just before he'd departed from the Grid last night, cursing as he deplored the necessity of preparing for his dubious revels, Tom Quinn had presented him with a copy of said form relating to his latest squeeze. Harry, having glanced through it before marking it for action, could only hope that Ellie Simm would prove less of a liability than Tom's previous girlfriend. The instant that that brainless trollop had passed the vetting procedure and become the recipient of the happy news that Tom was a spy she'd proceeded to make with the mouth to all and sundry, endangering Tom's life, let alone his career. Well Harry and the heavy mob had sorted that one out and Miss Loose Talk, having been offered a sudden financially advantageous promotion, was now sojourning physically in one of the less hospitable quarters of the globe and, unbeknownst to her, was also was featuring on a potential security risk watch list. Tom himself had recovered swiftly from his devastation. In all probability at this moment the lucky bastard was also dragging himself out of bed, after enjoying a night of passion with her replacement. Envying Tom, and with his mind straying back to the rejected possibilities of, for once, using his bed for more than sleeping, Harry threw the duvet aside, heaved himself off his mattress and headed towards the shower. Looking down at himself he sighed, shuddering in anticipation as he reached the inescapable conclusion that he'd better make it a cold one.

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Her red phone buzzed like an irritating insect. Tossing and turning in surroundings that were just as minimal, but much less luxurious, than those inhabited by her boss Zoe Reynolds was almost instantly awake. So unfortunately was her landlord who took the opportunity to try, yet again, to obtain entry to her room. Privacy for him seemed a non- existent concept, in as far as Zoe was concerned anyway. The morning ritual of rattling her door handle finally ceased when he realised that once more he was being denied entry, via, had he but known, the basic but effective protection afforded by the barrier of a wooden chair firmly jammed under the internal door handle. With his latest efforts at establishing a not so beautiful friendship successfully repulsed, as she stared gloomily around the sparse, utilitarian furniture, whose appearance was not enhanced by the dim dawn light filtering through the small rain stained window, Zoe yet again cursed her impulsiveness in storming out of her previous flat share.

When her ex-flatmate's boyfriend had tried to come onto her for the umpteenth time it had seemed a sensible idea to warn her not overly discriminating friend about the unfaithful propensities of love rat she was dating. End result: one massive row with disbelieving flatmate who, of course, had accepted as gospel the rat's version of events reversing the blame. So now Zoe found herself immured in a tatty overpriced room - whose cell like properties were distinctly out of kilter with the theories the great Virginia Woof had espoused when hymning the advantages of '_A Room of One's Own'_ \- with another rampant male trying to get into her knickers. Even worse, her prospects for an alternative residence were strictly limited given the price of London accommodation versus the need to maintain professional secrecy. Her previous flatmate's unquestioning dimness having, prior to the bust up, allowed her to simply accept Zoe's cover story that she was a Health and Safety on call operative whose job obliged her to attend accidents at a moment's notice.

Groaning Zoe poised herself to make a sprint into the bathroom, hopefully avoiding the resident letch, before returning to throw on her clothes and escape into the relative safety of her workplace.

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Elsewhere in London the early morning summer light was beginning to filter its rays through the long green drapes drawn across the windows of a spacious, almost semi-circular, bedroom, whose overall decor married the comfortably practical with the vaguely Bohemian. Placed centrally against the back wall of the room stood a double bed, decorated with matching basket weave head and foot boards, overlaid with rumpled bed linen**. ** The latter an indication that the two recumbent bodies housed underneath the sheets and the patchwork quilt, the latter composed a simple design of odd material squares, had not retired the previous night to merely enjoy some quiet slumber. In fact, despite the early hour, Tom Quinn was already awake when his phone signalled its unwelcome alert. At the precise moment it began vibrating his six foot plus naked length was stretched out - weight considerately supported by his elbows - as he hovered above the warm and receptive body of a similarly unclothed Ellie, mentally and physically preparing to reprise the more intimate parts of the previous night's activity.

The unwelcome, appallingly timed, interruption forced him to abandon his original wake-up call plans in favour of twisting around to read the phone screen. The need to conceal the pixelated display, which was buzzing him as Tom while, from the regions somewhere below his groin, the woman he'd been about to make love too was being addressing him as Matthew, merely reinforced his relief that yesterday evening he'd finally taken the serious step of submitting Ellie's name for vetting. Tom aka Matthew – or should that have been the other way around - might be an efficient spy, nearing the top of his game, but the strain of identity concealment was beginning to take its toll. The sooner he could stop living the lie forced upon him by security related circumstances the better.

Remembering his previous relationship debacle he was expecting some close questioning from Harry, but then he was beginning to get some increasingly uncomfortable interrogation from Ellie. This morning as he hastily dressed she was asking, not unreasonably, with just a hint of suspicion in her voice, what computer system went wrong at six thirty in the morning. He was sorely tempted to say '_An Irish one',_ but that was a little too close to the truth as texted. Fortuitously Ellie's attention was distracted by her lively eight year old Maisie bounding, without warning, through the red painted bedroom door making Tom/Matthew thankful that he'd managed to pull on his trousers and was in the mid process of zipping them up before she burst in. Getting naked with Ellie was one thing, walking around tackle out in front of her young daughter was quite another. While Maisie seemed to have gladly accepted him as an increasingly regular fixture in her home Tom could just imagine the capital that the prurient minded would make of that one. Sadly having to think the worst was an occupational hazard in some jobs, especially his own.

Grabbing his car keys and phone as he bade the two women in his life goodbye Matthew departed, transforming back into Tom Quinn: his latest mission, to discover whatever ominous events were underlying Jed's red flash.

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_**Thanks for reading. If you have a moment a review would be acceptable.**_


	2. Chapter 2: Harry's Operational Notes 1

**Thanks to all those who read and reviewed. I'm very grateful to you all. **

**In defence of the content of this chapter all I can say is Harry is a bloke and these are his private thoughts not ones he'd be likely to share in company, mixed or otherwise. **

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**2 May 2002 (05.54am)** Red Flash sent to team by a Grid operative. Follow up text message bombs imported from Ireland. Possible action by a dissident group. Further confirmation to follow. Operatives called to Grid for emergency briefing.

_Thank God I turned down the last night's shag opportunity. If I'd broken my own rules and taken her to my house - and I was tempted - I'd have had to make an excuse to throw her out without even offering her breakfast. Wham, Bang, Thank you Mam, and you haven't even earned a cornflake! Not the conduct of a gentleman towards any woman, even if I had no intention of ever seeing her again. If I'd gone to hers, or to a hotel, turning up in evening dress this morning would have sent the gossips into overdrive while going home to change would have made me unacceptably late for a red flash. Better to have suffered with another wasted erection and the inevitable cold shower. Being prudent doesn't stop me from feeling __thoroughly fed up with the obligation to set an example to the troops. I'd never admit it to anyone publicly but self control, self denial equals utter frustration. Not much alternative though, I'm not in the market for a regular relationship - with my track record that's even more risky than a series of one night stands. I suppose being able to fuck freely without worrying about form filling might be one upside to retiring, although by then I'll be so ancient my life choices will be reduced to either stuffing myself silly with Viagra to get it up or using it just to piss through. Ever assuming that in the interim it hasn't shrivelled up and dropped off due to frostbite. At least I haven't descended to wanking over a copy of Playboy. _

_When I finally hit the Grid Tom or someone else is about to be grilled over the background to this red flash. It sounds as though it could be serious so I really hope that it's some over cautious junior hitting the panic button. I'll try not to shout at them - well not too loudly - since in matters of terrorism alerts it's better being safe than sorry. A statement that just about fits my non existent sex life as well. _

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_**Thanks for reading and please review if you have a moment**. _


	3. Chapter 3: The Asset

**Thanks for the reviews to the last chapter. Now we move on. **

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Breathe deeply – don't look scared. Why did you ever get involved? Walk slowly. Seem natural. Relax but stay alert. Remember supposedly you are only here to view a house. That house. The familiar one you can see as you hurry up the road, the one labelled with the Dixon and Murray estate agent's board, although you know it is not the property that is for sale. Sold subject to contract the notice says. That's about right. It doesn't mention type of hidden contract the owners demanded you sign. The one in which you sold your soul and they promised you safety, allegedly. Not that you have physically signed anything, the owners have other, less legal methods, of enforcing their will.

Has he arrived yet the unknown man you've come to meet? Chris Patterson – not his real name – that is the one thing, the only thing, that today you can be sure of. Like you he lives in the shadows, a person seen by all, but in reality unknown. Turn around, check: have you been followed? You were so careful, watchful, on your way here. After parking your battered prone to breakdown car as ordered by custom and practice, in an area well away from this journey's end, you were forced to cover the remaining distance on foot. You are still shaking, a result of that horrible drive, long, tedious and thankfully remarkable only for your obsessive monitoring of the lights mirrored behind you, causing you to grip the wheel in terror, trying to concentrate on the road while mentally assessing your chances of being run off it. A lengthy, urgency driven transit, haunted by worry, so far unnecessary, over thought because who would suspect you for what you are. If anyone does – don't even think about that – but you must - the rumours about the last person caught out doing what you now do haunt your brain. If you want to keep that, along with your knees, an unmarked face, even your life, no one must suspect who you really are, what you have done, what you are about to do again. Be vigilant. From the depths of your shoulder bag you think you hear the rattle of the car keys, disturbed by the uneven haste of your walk. You briefly consider turning, running away, trying to escape all of this. Even as you think it you know that you won't. Pragmatism perhaps, fear definitely. Conversely you know too much and not enough. Too much to allow either of the sides you serve to just let you go, fly free, and yet not enough too make you indispensable, worthy of their protection.

What do you see as you walk quickly? You approach your rendezvous with your nerves increasing, you attempt to subdue them by telling yourself you are just a normal ordinary woman out for an early morning walk. If you repeat that wordless mantra often enough to yourself you might convince you, and more importantly convince any dawn watchers who lurk sight unseen. You are struggling, trying for an appearance of normality but suspect, no, you know that you are failing in this endeavour. Pray that this doesn't matter, and that this is the only way in which you are falling short. As you continue your passage down this nondescript, near deserted street you are hyper aware of everything, the cream bricks of the wall you are approaching, some stained from the base upwards with ancient creeping damp, the badly painted brown doorway you almost brush past. The black iron, slightly old fashioned, lamp post that stands sentinel outside your given destination. You quash down the worry that it might truly prove to be your final destination if the man you have come to meet is dissatisfied. But this new handler, the term they use, when what they really mean is the manipulator, where is he, who is he? What does he look like? You don't know, but he'll give you a sign. Pre-arranged so you can both be certain that neither of you is an imposter. A sick joke as you are both pretending to be something or someone you are not.

Only a road sweeper is in evidence. The road sweeper! Is he a road sweeper? His brush is gathering the leaves correctly into small heaps. But is this a cover, the leaves simply an excuse. It's the beginning of May, the start of summer, so why are autumn dead leaves coating the road and why now to dispose of them. Again you wonder is it a cover? If so who is he really? Whose side is he on? You try to glance without revealing your interest. He looks genuine shuffling around in his shabby working clothes and hi viz jacket but then so do you. You hope. You take stock for the umpteenth time of how you should, wrong word, if you are to survive, how you must appear to the world you walk in. A middle aged women, badly dyed blonde, typical clothes, white tee shirt under a denim jacket, jeans and high heels, toting an average sized black shoulder bag who walks, shoulders hunched, defensive and alone. Just an everyday person. Someone you'd see and pass in any street. Just as well. Even if other than the road sweeper the area is bare of people. This should reassure you but it doesn't, even as you remind yourself that at this time in the morning that is to be expected. You bite your lip apprehensively. You are moving ever nearer, eyes twitching restlessly as you do so. Wary, like an animal suspecting a trap, you survey the opposite side of the road. There stands the familiar building, squat with a sagging wire fence placed either side. Still neglected and sorely in need of a lick of paint. With its white scarred cladding, bars on the lower windows, it seems faintly sinister set against the backdrop of the high storied buildings that surround it. With the double yellow lines in front it is almost stranded, a secure isolated island. For you a symbol of menace, as you live your nightmare existence. The only sign of flourishing life in the midst of the desolation is the single tall green weed by the doorway, waving bravely in the slight breeze produced by passing movements. It is an unloved and obscure place, an almost ideal location. A washed up part of London well away from the tourist beat, featureless with nothing remarkable, but then the secret and covert prefers not to draw attention to itself. You wonder once again at the dramas that might have unfolded within this disguised rectangle of bricks that has now drawn into view and you suppress a shudder. Despite your knowledge that you are useful, an asset as they call you, fear arises from your stomach. Fear at what might happen once you meet.

So you halt, pause and stare at the figure standing under the sale board. Is that the man? The quasi estate agent. Coloured, dark suit, yellow tie and, crucially, holding a newspaper. It must be him mustn't it, hold back, don't be impulsive, wait for the signal. He scans the street just as you did, he sees you but doesn't acknowledge your presence as his eyes sweep over you, checking you out. Then, possibly satisfied with what he sees, he moves. Swiftly the newspaper is discarded in a casual throw onto the top of the black rubbish bag. The signal, your moment has come. You draw breath, check the sweeper, has the movement attracted his eye. Are you crossing the road to be met by one spy while being watched by another? If so who is the sweeper, friend or foe and would you, of all people really know the difference?

Your contact, Chris Patterson but not Chris Patterson, again you remind yourself that his is an invisible identity that, like the newspaper, will be discarded the instant he leaves you, enters the property. You stand and wait, tense, trying to look normal while being prudent as you await further confirmation that all is well. The upstairs blinds flicker, open and close - the second signal - so you scurry your way across the road and disappear through the doorway. Grateful for your invisibility you swallow and close the door, the lock snaps firmly, like a dungeon. With a frission of fear you wonder if you will ever emerge again. You've done this before and the game - except it isn't a game unless you count Russian roulette - becomes more dangerous every time.

You enter, he's run down the stairs now and ushers you into the sparse kitchen. The interior is basic, nicely judged, the few furnishings consistent with abandonment, matching the general air of neglect, that faint whiff of damp cold that emanates from a house allegedly unoccupied. But it is, you suspect, still functional. An opinion confirmed when you note the clutter of ancient kitchen utensils resting on the old fashioned unit of steel sink and draining board. The last time you were entertained in these undistinguished surroundings this room was innocent of any evidence of leisure use. Tucked away out of sight in this seemingly unoccupied property the essentials for life in prison are hidden. Like everything else, including yourself, nothing is what it seems. It is a safe house, but safe for precisely whom, not those who enter uninvited or those who are required to stay for whatever purpose. You shiver, a reaction that has little to do with the grubby blue and white walls that decorate the room, enclosing you its gloomy insides, barely touched by the shafts of light that manage to filter through the still closed blinds. As you stare around – why - are you hoping to escape your doom, a cobweb in the corner draws your attention as it quivers with the trembling of a fly, caught, trapped, awaiting its inevitable consumption by a spider. It reminds you of you as the man you are with indicates that you are to sit. So you pull out the basic chair he points at, wincing slightly as its feet scrape across the white and grey diamond patterned canvas, reflecting as you do so that the floor is somewhat cleaner that you would anticipate if the house was truly disused. Without waiting for permission you pull out your cigarette packet, on these occasions you invariably chain smoke, hoping to puff out the nerves alongside the nicotine, while you attempt to ignore the CCTV, and even more incriminating for your future health, the recording equipment.

Why do you do this – you know, you were caught and offered the choice, work as an asset or go to prison and they'd also frame your brothers. You believed them. At the time it seemed to be the best, the only decision you could make. The odd piece of gossip to be passed on and all would be well. Now you marvel at your naivety. You traded a probable finite prison sentence for a different one, a lifetime of trading in this world of smoke and mirrors, straddling two opposing camps. Once again you remind yourself that these people who offered you that supposed lifeline resemble your parent organisation, they'll stop at nothing to pursue their beliefs. Now you are sitting on that hard, uncomfortable chair, resting your elbows on the basic wood chip table, trying to pretend - before you really succumb to your dread imaginings - that this is just a normal conversation, a simple transaction. In a way it is. You are giving information; that is their price for allowing you the freedom of the streets. The gift that keeps on giving from either side of the table. Except of course you aren't free, not really, they give you that chimera of choice, but if you try to walk away they will destroy you. The contact sits opposite. He fixes you with a stare as you try not to look at him. Instead you concentrate on the questions, intense, spat out like bullets.

He hasn't commented on the road sweeper, just checked the screen noting whatever is happening outside, so at least you've not been sussed. The sweeper is either a friend as in not a foe or the real thing, if that exists, after the last few years you are not longer sure of that. Be grateful it would seem that for now you are safe. A relative term as the interrogation begins.

"I just got my boss out of bed for this. Start reassuring me."

And if he does not receive that reassurance? The glare is intense, laser like... It asks if it can trust you – He is worried about his boss and his own position. That thought should give you strength; even as you pull nervously again on your ciggie you recognise that you are both united by a mutual dependence allied with a mutual distrust of another. You stutter and shake as you yet again spill out what you know, trying to make a bad situation better. Bad situation for whom, him and those he serves, or yourself?

"Explosives and detonators arrived in Liverpool from Ireland today at 2.30am. But it's nothing to do with us. No one's planning anything. No one's said anything."

You try to exonerate your friends, protect them even, as you reveal their never to be spoken secrets. And it's true. No one said anything directly; you overheard a whispered conversation and crept to the docks and then hastened here, to tell of what you shouldn't know. You are tempted to divert the conversation. He has questions, so too do you - starting with what happened to your previous contact, that tall, gaunt man with the dark hair and probing eyes code named Luke Nesbit. Where is he? One day you simply received a message that in future you were to contact Chris Paterson, no explanation, a simple bald statement. They gave no details, but then they never do. You reject the nosy impulse, as still the questions come in a relentless battering.

"How many devices?"

You are afraid now. He sounds fierce, but his eyes seem wary. It occurs to you that perhaps he is as frightened as you. Maybe, but in any balance he has the backing of his organisation. One false step on your part and you are sure that revenge will be enacted. You are not equal partners in fear. He has the upper hand, ultimately he is in control. You are on your own. You tell him.

"Twenty."

And he almost spits: "And where are they now?"

You draw again on the cigarette as, soothed by the waves of nicotine, you tell him the truth he doesn't want to hear, a mild, if pointless, revenge for what he and the organisation he represents are putting you through.

"I don't know."

You see the disbelieving look. And then you tell him what you do know. That the twenty includes pipe bombs, high grade explosives and remote detonation kit. You stutter news exhaled through your nicotine flavoured breath. You give him chapter and verse. You promise to continue researching, to make contact again if fresh, more accurate details reach your ear. You hope it is enough. Enough to let you live and breathe another day of freedom of movement. Freedom from fear is beyond you, it has been for years, you risk a glance at your interrogator as you assess your chances of being graciously granted a future, on their terms of course.

The man in front of you is young, might even be kind in real life but not inside this artificial construct you are currently trapped in as you play out your roles. To him you are simply an asset, and if you've got it wrong are you safe? So you've blurted out your story, you've told the truth as far as you know it, if they believe you then you live to leave, to survive and spy another day. It is the most you can hope for. Until the day, drawing ever nearer, when you are finally rumbled by someone, somewhere, and become just another casualty. You think you see a shade of contempt in his face and why not. At which point will he advise his employers that you have ceased to be an asset and should now be categorised as a liability? Would you know, and if you did would you even attempt to escape to a precarious safety, trying to survive those few days longer, or face up to the inevitable, that there will come a moment when the imagined gun to your head becomes the last ultimately known reality.

Trust no one. Trust what is it? Does anyone in this world of bluff and lies even know? Does anyone know whose side they really are on? The sole truth that you can vouch for is what you have finally become, what you are.

The liar. The double agent. The ordinary women. The betrayer.

The one code named Osprey.

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**Thanks for reading. if you have a moment a review would be acceptable. **


	4. Chapter 4 Harry's Operational Notes 2

**Thanks to all who read and since the last chapter was something of departure from my usual writing style the lovely reviews were especially appreciated. **

**This chapter: between personal and professional frustrations Harry is not a happy man. The script directions might say Zen calm but I've a suspicion that his personal thoughts were anything but.**

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2 May 2002 (07.10am) Bomb detonated in Allerton, Liverpool. No warning and no opportunity to trace perpetrators prior to detonation. Asset: code name Osprey contacted handler (Danny Hunter under the legend of Chris Patterson) 20 devices, pipe bombs, remote detonation kit. Asset lost track after items brought in at Liverpool at 2.30am approx. Information given face to face at approx.6.00am. Informant is a Grade 1 asset whose past Intel has been reliable. Asset will try to obtain further data but may have difficulty doing so without breaking cover. Extraction or burn plan for asset being rechecked – note asset is unaware of its existence and will only be contacted if we have definite cause to think her compromised. Loyalist source so Irish involvement possible, despite asset claiming no one in her group responsible.

_Not those bastards again. Whatever the asset says, and however much our in denial political masters choose to play it down, the Irish are bloody well involved since they've provided the sodding bombs for someone else to detonate. I know the theory, 'jaw jaw is better than war war', outright war anyway, not the never ending spy against spy undercover, unadmitted, permanent battle of wits and subterfuge. Just don't expect me to start humming 'forty shades of green' any time soon, unless I can mean it ironically. Whenever I think about what those oversized leprechauns did to Bill my stomach heaves. The one and only shade of green I associate with the Emerald Isle is th__e memory of my reflection in the mirror after I'd finally stopped vomiting. _

_As for today I'm bracing myself. Any second now various denizens of the Home Office will hitting the secure line, once again reverting to their customary default mode, pure panic. On average this is a thrice weekly process, usually succeeded by an acrimonious conversation between yours truly and Whitehall's finest! An exchange of views during which the inhabitants of that department collectively display less sense of direction than coup full of headless chickens. By now I'm accustomed to it, but what'll be so fucking galling this time around is that I tried to tell the Home Office that Ireland was still a risk, but do politicians listen? Not on your sweet life, they're all far too busy seeking photo opportunities with people who should be clapped in prison, aka their new found political chums. All friends together singing in harmony. Where the fuck do they think we're living, bloody Disneyland! On further consideration given the way some of our glorious leaders have proudly gone public about their student pot smoking escapades I can think of several candidates who'd be dead ringers for Dopey, the intellectually challenged dwarf._

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	5. Chapter 5: The Neighbour

**_Thanks to those who read and especially to my kind reviewers. Before anyone is driven to freeze frame 1.1 wondering if they missed a character - no you didn't, this one of my OC inventions._**

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_A Police Station somewhere in Liverpool approx 11.00am _

The elderly woman, whose wispy unbrushed grey hair and tear blotched face, the outward indications of her confused, woebegone state, was still shuddering at the memory. The policewoman who sat with her had been professionally kind, uttered soothing words while explaining to her that her statement would help in tracing the culprits, but not even that typical British cure for all problems, a hot sweet cup of tea, could banish the memory of the explosion, the heat and noise, the flying shards of metal followed by the eerie, suddenly silenced scream of the child. The information elicited from her through careful patient questioning was now officially preserved in cold stark words upon the paper placed in front of her. Here in neat precise black typewritten characters lay the clinical description of death: the destruction of a family. Her dazed eyes roamed around the room as she sat, cocooned in a state of total disbelief: not simply that this had happened, but that it had happened in her quiet suburban street. Then half an hour ago the news had been broken, gently, but nonetheless devastatingly, that Karen Lynott was dead. As the tears had fallen she'd nerved herself to ask in a wavering voice about the fate of the child. Nothing definite she was told, but Mavis picking up on the momentary pause, followed by the warily neutral tone with which this non information was delivered, divined that the gravest of fears were entertained for Sarah. Surely no: not little Sarah, so sweet, so pretty, so lively and only seven years old. Fumbling ineptly with her chunky fawn coloured cardigan, ancient and bobbled - thrown on carelessly with a view to doing her housework, a few minutes before the anticipated mundane day had transformed itself into a real time horror movie - she leaned forward to read the translation of her experience.

Now encapsulated in formal prose as she scanned this bland description she scarcely recognised the nightmare that the interviewer had teased out of her. These were not the words she'd muttered in barely coherent sentences as she'd been forced to relive, second by second, the hardly believable events of the morning. Mavis understood that due to her continually welling eyes and the frequent bouts of shivering, through which the lingering shock had continued to manifest itself, she'd been in no condition to write down her own version of the explosion or its equally hideous aftermath, but this! These were the words of a robot, immune to all emotional impact. Blunted, shorn of any hint of feeling and impersonal. In no conceivable way did this matter of fact account come close to reflecting the raw terror that continued to dominate her memory.

Witness Statement of Mrs Mavis Riley.

_I reside at No 12 Waverley Avenue, Allerton, Liverpool on the opposite side of the road to the Lynott family. On the morning of 2 May at around 7.10am I noticed a dustman in the street. Normally the bin collection takes place later in the day. Because of this I went to put my rubbish bag out. As I was doing so I noticed the man who I thought was a dustman walk past the Lynott's house carrying a black plastic bag which he placed on a pile with some others. He was wearing a high visibility jacket and dark clothing. As he walked down the road away from the Lynott's house I saw Dr Karen Lynott come out of their house dressed for work. She was carrying her handbag. She entered her car, registration number M216 CPV. She was preparing to leave when her husband, Dr Michael Lynott and their two daughters, Sarah and Clare Lynott came of out the front door. I think Dr Karen Lynott said something to them but I was too far away to hear the actual words. Leaving the two girls standing in the doorway porch Dr Michael Lynott moved towards the car and seemed to look underneath it. He said something to his wife and then moved away back into the porch area of their property. I watched as Dr Karen Lynott reversed out of the drive and then begin to manoeuvre the vehicle into the road. As she did so Sarah Lynott ran after the car. Sarah continued to follow it, waving to her mother. As Dr Karen Lynott backed the car out of the drive I noticed that the man I'd believed to be a refuse collector was still walking down the road although no dustbin lorry was present. I saw him light a cigarette and turn around as Dr Lynott began to drive down the street. As she passed the red car belonging to Mr William Deves, which was parked as usual on the roadside, there was a loud explosion. The noise and dust made me close my eyes for a moment. When I reopened them the red car was wrecked and lying upside across the road. Dr Lynott's car was still turning over and over. I did not count the number of times it turned but it finally stopped on its roof. I heard the little girl scream as the car exploded and I saw metal pieces flying across the road. I do not know if any struck Sarah Lynott but I subsequently saw her lying unconscious on the road. The dustman who had been facing the car as it exploded turned his back and walked away down the road away from the destroyed cars and the Lynott's house. A white car that was parked further down the road then drove away. I think the man I saw in the street was sitting in the back of the white car. It had two occupants in the front, a man and a woman but I would be unable to recognise them again. As far as I know the white car I saw does not belong to anyone who lives in the street. I saw no one else in the street during the time described other than Dr Michael Lynott and the two children._

Picking up the pen strategically placed beside the statement Mrs Riley signed her name and leaned back, exhausted and still incredulous. Reading the document had forced her to relive the events as detailed and she began to shiver once more, crossing her arms, as if to protect herself from the reality, as she rocked her thin body back and forth hugging her silent grief. Quietly the policewoman picked up the paper and handed it to her colleague who scanned it, and then with a small nod of satisfaction promptly exited in a swirl of activity. Before Mavis could bring herself to ask what would happen next the policewoman who'd been looking after her was beckoned out of the room by a colleague. Mavis, even in the midst of her self absorbed sorrows, registered the low buzz of conversation on the other side of the door, followed by the clipping sound of the policewoman's shoes, signalling her return. Wordlessly a further document was placed in front of her. Wiping her eyes she cast a puzzled face towards her companion and then, starting at the sudden unexpected sound of the door clanging open, turned to note the entrance of another, hitherto unseen, individual. Male, plain clothes and imbued with an unmistakable aura of authority. Unlike the officers she'd been nursemaided by to date he didn't bother to introduce himself. Despite this omission, Mavis, whose sole acquaintanceship with the interior workings of the law - until today- had been via multiple TV dramas, assumed he was a plain clothes officer.

She wasn't destined to be enlightened, even though, after clearing his throat, he addressed her solemnly, in a manner more suited to a public information meeting. "I would like to thank you for your help Mrs Riley. Your statement was very clear and has helped us greatly. Unfortunately I have to inform you that it would seem that this explosion was not the result of a faulty petrol tank as first assumed, but a deliberate attempt to murder by bomb. Under these circumstances I must ask you to sign this."

Looking at the paper presented to her red raw eyes Mavis saw that it was headed '_Official Secrets Act'_. The rest consisted of jargon, making wordy demands that she could barely comprehend. "But," she began, "who would want to kill Dr Lynott, she was such a lovely woman and the little girl as well?" As the slow silent tears resumed she was struggling to take in the enormity what she was being told. She thought she saw sympathy in the faces in front of her, but she also saw something else, officialdom presenting a united front. 'Why do I have to sign this?" she persisted. She really didn't understand, surely it was important to warn people so this didn't happen again.

The male officer looked impatient but the policewoman spoke gently. 'We don't know who or why but if the press find out that this was a bomb they may print information that will prevent us from investigating properly."

"But wouldn't that help to find out. I'm sure that people would want to help. She's such a lovely woman, they are …." Halting as she remembered the suddenly changed circumstances, "were such a lovely family."

Lovely, lovely, blasted, exploded, injured, who, who, why.

The mantra ran on a permanent loop in her mind and speech. The visions scarred into her brain as she babbled endlessly, as if by talking it out she could return to the safe world she'd known, "and Dr Lynott she'd help anyone, and they were such a happy family, the little girls so bright and lively... he's such a nice man, always speaks, no one would want them dead, why would they..."

As she continued to vent her shock in endless repetition, policewoman shook her head and indicated to her unempathic superior that this might be best left to her. With just the two of them in the room she sat opposite Mavis and waited until the babbling ceased and the tears began to slow.

Choosing her words carefully she tried to comfort and inform. "I'm sure that people would but sometimes we need to select who we ask. And occasionally the press get things wrong." Leaving a short pause for thought she continued, "You've had a bad shock. Do you have anyone you can stay with for a few days, just while we investigate?"

Mavis considered for a moment. Probably her bossy younger sister would let her visit. Cast adrift mentally by the horrors she'd witnessed Joan's certainty and usual determination to relieve Mavis of the necessity for thinking, would, for once, be welcome. Joan ran a small bed and breakfast business and often needed help, and Mavis was always happy to lend a hand. A few days of being useful while she recovered was an appealing prospect.

"My sister lives in the Wirral. I could stay with her but I've no clothes and ..." at the thought of going back to the explosion scarred street she began to shake again, she wasn't sure that she'd ever be able to face walking down her front path in the future. Would she forever replay in slow motion the memory of seeing the child running, the car flying up into the air, feel the rush of hot air and exploding metal, the little girl thrown into the air like a ragdoll. The dull thud as she hit the ground. The sight of an agitated Mike Lynott running down the road screaming '_Oh God no, Karen!_', before, driven back by the heat, he turned his attention to trying to revive the unconscious Sarah. Other neighbours, some screaming while others more usefully clutched young Clare to themselves, vainly attempting to console her while her distressed cries of '_Mummy, Mummy, Sarah, Sarah'_ rose above the general hubbub. Then, after the short pause that seemed to last an age, the wailing of sirens indicating that official help was on its way, there had been the appalling sight of her horribly burned, virtually unrecognisable neighbour being removed from the car**. **Even worse than of all was the knowledge that throughout this sequence of grotesque events she'd been transfixed, rooted into her front garden, utterly useless but unable to turn away, hypnotised by the horrors unfolding in front of her. The policewoman seemed to understand.

"You sign that paper and then we'll ring your sister. I'll arrange for someone to collect what you need from your house. We'll take you to the Wirral."

Relieved that she would not have to brave the street just yet Mavis scribbled her name across the second document of the day. Joan would understand and sympathise. In a few days, when she felt better, perhaps she'd be able to face going home.

No one could have told her that she would never again live at 12 Waverley Avenue.

That she'd spend the next few nights reliving the sights and would wake up screaming.

That her alarmed sister would finally insist that she attended counselling.

That the sound of fireworks or any unexpected loud bang would bring instant recall.

That in six months time she'd give up the pretence that she could return home to live on her own and would put her house on the market.

That she'd begin to shake every time she heard an emergency siren.

That while she was physically able to leave the scene of the experience the aftermath would live with her in every breath.

That the bomb had destroyed her life as she knew it just as surely as it had destroyed the life of Dr Mike Lynott and his surviving daughter.

It was perhaps as well that she did not know her future, for if she did could she have faced it on that morning when everything changed?

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_**Thanks for reading and if you have a few minutes a review would be appreciated**_.


	6. Chapter 6: Harry's Operational Notes 3

**Thanks reading and once again extra thanks to my faithful reviewers. We go slightly backwards time wise from the previous chapter.**

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**2 May 2002 (7.35 am)** Instruction from the Home Office, this must be suppressed to avoid a mass panic. To be actioned:

a) In the first instance Tom Quinn will be dispatched to Liverpool to liaise with the Manchester office and Special Branch.

b)The press will be issued with a D notice, but due to the explosion already being in the public domain a total news blackout is not an option, necessitating the planting of an alternative explanation. Authorised news release: an unexploded World War Two bomb.

_Tom looked really happy when I issued instruction a). I wasn't exactly surprised. Send Tom north of the Watford gap and he immediately starts hunting for his passport. Still we all have to suffer for the greater good. When I told him we need a wet flannel over this for once I wasn't referring to the Home Secretary's political stance. News of this has to be supressed and the exact source of the attack traced quickly, otherwise we'll be faced with a situation that we wouldn't be able to damp down, even if we were gifted with a metaphorical marquee recovering from a cloudburst. _

_With those thoughts to the forefront of my mind I'm not inclined to waste much sympathy on Tom's few hours endurance of a secondment to the uncivilized regions beyond the metropolis. He has the easy job; he just has to turn up. I'm the one who'll have to deal with the objections of the Manchester branch. They can be guaranteed to take the view that although the only information relating to this incident was provided by our asset since it happened on their patch they should be placed in charge. Not that I intend to mention either the asset or the precise nature of the Intel at this stage. That would just leave Section D wide open to the accusation that we let the explosion happen rather than share. If I can't smooth them over, and I don't intend to spend valuable time arguing the toss, I'll have to pull rank. Normally that wouldn't bother me, but this time I'd rather not as privately I'm prepared to concede that if the positions were reversed I'd feel the same way. _

_More importantly since, unlike the Manchester mob, the press don't have obey my instructions if the War bomb story doesn't hold we'll need to prepare a fluffy alternative for dissemination to the discerning population. Something about a footballer, or possibly a pop star, caught with their trousers down while snorting drugs ought do it. Distract the public by creating a five days scandal regarding one of their idols and we gain some breathing space. The press who are overly obsessed with their cult of celebrity won't focus on what, in my opinion, is the main disgrace, namely the obscene sums members of these two essential professions get paid for either kicking a ball around or yowling into a microphone. The first lot may have talented feet but - for the most part - possess only a single brain cell, usual location, inside their trousers, while some of these so called pop stars ought to be prosecuted under the Trades Descriptions Act. Whatever they produce it's certainly not music. I'm willing to bet that Roland le Pettour, who was allegedly paid by Henry II to fart tunes, was infinitely more musical. Failing a celb exposure a nice alarming health scare should do the trick. Anything at all in that area of information, providing it doesn't proclaim that whisky is bad for you – oh no it isn't, it's a sanity preserver. _

_With reference to reality, as experienced in the world beyond the doors of Thames House, I suspect that I don't need to be overly concerned about what we filter into the public domain. It won't really matter, providing it, whatever it is, proves convincing enough to ensure that the journalists employed by the self- righteous '_Daily Mail_' and boob orientated '_Sun'_ fall for it. _

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_**Just a note. Roland le Pettour is not an invention of mine. Seemingly he could fart tunes and was employed to provide 'a whistle, a leap and a fart' for which he was rewarded with 30 acres of land. To keep said land his descendants had to turn up every Christmas to perform as described. Other top entertainment for royalty according to Terry Jones in his book 'Medieval Lives' was for a minstrel to spread honey on his member and then a performing bear was brought it. As Mr Jones puts it, 'What happened next isn't exactly explained, but whatever it was probably doesn't figure in 'Winnie - the Pooh'. Now there's a thought with which to enliven the next Royal Variety Performance? **_

_**Thanks for reading and if you have a moment feel free to review**. _


	7. Chapter 7: The Special Branch Officer

**Once again thanks to my faithful readers and many thanks for the reviews.**

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I remember the day vividly. Even in our line of work a bomb is a relatively unusual occurrence, although until recently we've had to be extremely vigilant, the natural result of being a main port entry from Ireland. As a matter of course we still watch out for what terrorist flotsam might drift across the water, but thankfully the stresses that were prevalent prior to the Good Friday Agreement have eased off a little. For the most part, and much to our professional relief, it has transpired that after suffering through two decades plus of strife the majority of the Northern Irish just want peace, combined with the security of being able to walk down a road and round a corner without apprehension as to what unsuspected, unseen dangers might be lurking out of immediate sight. That suits us fine, although the threat continues to linger on from a few dissident Irish factions, still allegedly fired by idealism. Maybe they are, but being a crabbed policeman whose years of experience stack up into double figures I suspect that their declared allegiance to the forty shades of green is nothing more or less than a cynical cloak under which fester a variety of organised crime syndicates, most of whose activities can't even claim a nodding acquaintance with patriotism. For myself I'm just grateful that the requirement for intensive security in that area of operation has diminished a little over recent years. We still have more than enough crisis's to keep us occupied, for while Ireland may be retreating into the status of an ancient issue Islamic extremism and organised high end thuggery are providing us with a more than adequate substitute in the gainful employment stakes. Consequently it was with horror that, as I was calmly driving my way into the office, I was suddenly diverted by a call crackling through the hands free at around half past seven. Early reports of an explosion in Allerton about fifteen minutes previously were flooding in. Nothing definite at that stage and some members of the public do love to ramp up the hysteria –the memory of the parrot that once escaped from Chester zoo and subsequently figured in news reports as a vulture remains my favourite mindless scare - but even discounting the usual panicking reaction the initial information was quite sufficient to suggest that we had bombing incident on our hands. Emergency and forensic teams had already been despatched but, given the likelihood that terrorism in some guise was the underlying cause, the attendance of a Special Branch officer was required as well. With nothing beyond the normal currently on our radar the alarmed subtext of my superior's communication was, 'Please tell me that we haven't missed something.'

When I arrived there it was immediately apparent that we had. Even from a distance, and about half an hour after the event, the slight misting of particles that any violent disturbance throws up still remained suspended in the atmosphere. The flashing of warning lights and the purposeful movement of various figures visible as I turned into the afflicted road providing further confirmation that I was approaching a scene of death and disaster, even without the ambulance tearing past me with siren blaring, aural evidence of at least one casualty. Parking my own car a little further away from the area of feverish activity I approached on foot. From the cursory assessment I automatically undertook on my short walk towards the white and green police taped cordon it seemed that while the two wrecked vehicles had borne the brunt of the attack the accompanying shock waves had also projected their vicious damage onto the nearest houses. The flapping of torn curtains suggesting that the force of the blast had put out several windows. Before I could confirm this I was halted at the sealed off barrier by a uniformed constable, young and looking slightly sick. We've all been there, before experience bloods us to a show of indifference.

Queasiness not withstanding he was polite but firm. "Sorry Sir but this area off limits to the public." With that he made to usher me away, until I stayed his action by producing my identity card. He was instantly contrite and helpful.

"Sorry Sir, we didn't know that Special Branch had been informed." The astonished look he gave me suggesting that I was some sort of rare beast, but I will say he was quick to recover and take up the implications as he added helpfully, "The officer in charge is Sergeant Eliot – he's just over there, talking to the bomb disposal squad."

Having thanked him I made my way towards the first on the scene officers, trying to avoid treading across the main area of damage for fear of hindering the Soco personnel at the work. If we ever did get anyone to court the last thing we'd want would be their brief attempting a defence of innocence on the basis that conviction was impossible owing to contamination at the crime scene.

The sight that greeted me had probably been depressingly familiar a few years back in certain areas of Belfast, and I freely admit that we do have more than our fair share of trashed cars in the sundry rough areas of Liverpool, but the sight of two scorched burnt out vehicles, one resting on what remained of its roof, with both reduced to their basic unpainted battered skeleton was still a shock. One of them, the upside down one, seemed to have had its entire side removed. That I was informed by Sergeant Eliot, who had instantly materialised at my side, was the result of the driver having to be cut out of the front seat. He added that the fire service, now packing their gear away, in cahoots with the mostly departed paramedics had proceeded against advice despite the danger of further explosion. I sometimes wonder if the complaining public ever consider how often these guys risk their own lives. Like all the emergency services they keep quiet about their heroics, which they simply consider to be part of the job. From where I was standing it was a toss up which was the greater of two competing minor mysteries. How the paramedics, now rushing their charges to hospital, had managed to extract the driver from the twisted metal shell of a car or alternatively, looking at the scattered debris while inhaling the smell of burning, how come there hadn't been more than two casualties, both I was informed from a family called Lynott: mother and seven year old daughter. In sober truth as the specialist teams were already engrossed in disentangling the strands of cause, effect, and culpability there was little I could do other than confirm from the various experts present that in their opinion this was, or had been, a car bomb, although not, they thought, ignited by the driver's key turning on the engine. Positioning and a witness suggested the actual explosion had taken place a little after the car was backed out of the drive. Not that that tentative conclusion was going to make much difference to the Lynotts. The ways and means would be of secondary importance to the fact that half their family members were now on the way into hospital, and from the sight that had greeted me on arrival it was a wonder they'd survived thus far. House to house, begun with alacrity, had already established that witnesses were thin on the ground. At that time of day most of the street residents were either shovelling down breakfast in their kitchens, or were positioned in front of the bathroom mirror making themselves look respectable for the rigours of the day, most of which locations were situated towards the rear of the properties. As my assumption about destroyed windows had proved to be accurate several individuals, prevented from going to work due to the enforced road closure, were inspecting the damage to their properties while disinterring the details of their insurance companies. Personally I thought, having noted state of the front gardens nearest to the blast area, that we'd been lucky – a relative term in the circumstances – that we'd had no more inadvertent casualties. I've seen the result of too many broken bottle fights in pubs to underestimate the damage a shard of glass can do. Given the correct angle – again a relative term- a glass fragment if yielded carelessly can be as lethal as a dagger.

That witnesses were going to be thin on the ground was bad news. Apart from Michael Lynott, or as I was informed Dr Michael Lynott, who was understandably not available for immediate interview, only the neighbour from across the street claimed to have seen the bulk of the horror. As I watched the elderly agitated woman being ushered into a car by a uniformed constable I was guessing from her demeanour it would take some time and much sympathic expertise to tease any coherent statement from her. Leaving that task to the well practised, trained interviewers I was just in the process of ascertaining an estimated timeline for the series of events when I was interrupted by a call patched through from an MI5 operative. That in itself wasn't a huge surprise. With Special Branch occupying the professional hinterland between the every day world of the various district constabularies and the unseen officers of the security services we are too aware that the spooks have primacy in all cases of suspected terrorism, and it was glaringly obvious that a bomber on the loose was responsible for creating the devastation I was currently surveying. It was the fact that it was the central London offices, not the local Manchester based MI5 employees, that was the surprise. Even more so when they, without us having filed a preliminary report, were querying suspected Irish involvement. I confirmed that if anything ever had '_made in Derry'_ written all over it this was it. Having rung my own office with a verbal update I was tasked with heading off to the hospital, there to monitor the progress of the injured, but to do nothing else until further instructions were forthcoming from the security services.

When I finally made it into St Mary's casualty unit, at around nineish, I walked slap bang into the usual hospital hell of organised confusion, not helped by A &amp; E having to deal with a major RTA simultaneously with the admissions I was intending to follow up. Consequently the hospital staff didn't have time to answer anything much in the way of questions as they scurried around with various instruments and tubes in an attempt to save lives, which is after all their primary function. It took me about ten minutes of fighting my way through the hubbub to ascertain that the Lynott casualties had been brought here. That was when I discovered that the initial family details I'd acquired at the scene had been garbled. Due to the need for speed, and the almost inevitable crossed wires attendant upon that, no one had informed me that the affected household contained two Dr Lynotts. The victims being Dr Karen Lynott female and their eldest daughter Sarah, aged seven. Protocol demands that usually only immediate family receive whatever clinical information can be ascertained, but given the circumstances I eventually managed to persuade the medics to give me at least an outline. It wasn't good. The daughter was unconscious, with severe internal injuries. Stable: but at a dangerously low level. Dr Karen Lynott was in the ICU and unless some medical miracle intervened it was only a matter of time before a least one casualty became a fatality.

When I rang in with these scanty but updated details I was informed that although MI5 were taking over the case, I was to remain, then handover to the spooks, a brief accompanied by the informal instruction '_for Christ's sake Keith keep the press away._' I'd been expecting that of course, if it's a bomb its MI5's but I can't say I was happy about having to handover to the security faceless, especially the London officials. We work quite well with the Manchester based staff, a matter of necessity given the blurred areas of responsibility we all operate within, but in my somewhat limited experience, the London officers, when they finally deign to turn up tell you nothing and, displaying a breath taking metropolitan arrogance, treat you like a sub intelligent errand boy. Meanwhile I'd been stuck with a major problem.

Apart from the woman I'd seen being escorted to the relevant police station it had now been confirmed that Dr Mike Lynott was our only other competent witness, meaning someone was going to be allocated the unenviable task of questioning him, and sooner rather than later, but he was also on the cusp of becoming a bereaved man and even if he was a doctor I very much doubted that in this instance his professional knowledge would be helping the situation. If anything it would be even more agonising since it was unlikely that he'd believe the soothing verbal bromides issued by the medical staff. While I knew the questions I would ask, the officer from MI5, being privy to information that was not for the likes of us - good only for mopping up the odd crumb that was beneath their job description - would no doubt have his own questions and I found myself reluctant to subject Mike Lynott to a double grilling within a matter of hours. He'd already had to make the appalling decision as to whether he stayed with his daughter, now lying in a separate side ward, temporarily made private due to circumstances, or sat with his wife in the ITU awaiting the inevitable. Not a choice I envied him, although I gathered he'd decided to stay with his daughter. In the end, having once again been obliged to pull out my id card in order to pass the uniformed officers standing guard outside, I walked into the ward, introduced myself and explained that while I needed to interview him I was awaiting the arrival of a colleague who would be investigating with me. Taking over was more like it but some things you don't say. I'm not sure how much of this actually registered with Mike Lynott. I didn't blame him for that at all, Sarah looked dreadful, breathing via ventilator and plugged into a variety of other monitors. His sole acknowledgment of my presence being, "I'll not be leaving any time soon.' A rending statement of fact, rather than aggravation.

Not wanting to distress him any more than was necessary I retreated to the bridge like walkway placed a few yards beyond the ward. An airy glass and girder arrangement, connecting one part of the hospital with another, giving a welcome glimpse of the ordinary outdoor world, and with it the reminder that my working life usually succeeds in its objective of ensuring that the mundane continues on its daily course uninterrupted by the type of high tragedy I was currently embroiled in. With little to do expect hang around the wait seemed endless, punctuated only by the occasional swish of a nurse heading to and from the multitude of wards the walkway corridor formed. When no one was in sight I took the chance of ringing the office, the update was uniformly depressing. The further details of the attack that had been painstakingly culled from the neighbour all confirmed the initial assumption that this was not an accident. Allied with that was the news that a D notice had been issued to the press, plus the named officer despatched from London was Tom Quinn, Section Chief of Section D Counter Terrorism department. Having for the first time since I'd been diverted to the explosion to actually think, while I awaited his arrival I realised that if Thames House were already aware that the Irish were involved they must have known something we didn't. Had they decided to let something run for Intel and now it had blown up, literally, leading to at least one and probably two pending fatalities?

Knowing that eventually I'd have to write up a paper report I'd noted my time of arrival at the hospital. Apart from that and my subsequent communication from the office, my next entry was the time that Dr Karen Lynott expired. Mike Lynott was of course informed that his wife was now definitely failing so, with me keeping a discreet distance away, he abandoned his daughter and hurried to the ICU unit. He managed to reach it just in time, although whether he'd have recognised his wife underneath all the bandages had her name not been scribbled on a board above her bed was a matter for debate. I stood back watching from a distance, feeling like a voyeur, one of the most unpleasant parts of the job in my opinion. Emergency death and disaster in an unexpected moment requiring an emergency reaction is one thing. Standing aside while someone expires, watching the grief of the family and friends, breaking the bad news, sitting by as they gasp with the sorrow that no one can know until they experience it themselves, that really is the worst. I have to say I admired the man. Most people in those circumstances lash out, looking for someone to blame. I'd even braced myself to take the brunt of his distressed anger, but as the monitoring screen flatlined and the time of death was called he simply bent over, kissed his wife's body, thanked the staff and without further comment walked away. As he passed by he acknowledged me with a nod, "You'll know where I am." Falling into step with him we returned silently back towards the ward where Sarah lay. It was obvious that he was trying to hold himself together for the sake of his daughter. He disappeared through the guarded doorway to keep vigil by her bedside leaving me to return to the unspeakable tedium of waiting for his high and mightiness from MI5 to put in his august appearance.

Having rung in with the confirmation that we now had a fatality, adding murder to whatever charge sheet the culprits would eventually have to face, assuming we, or someone got them, I estimated that I had at least an hour to occupy. To wile away my time I visited the hospital shop and purchased a copy of the local newspaper editions. Just as well I was in a hospital as the headline story sent my blood pressure soaring to danger level. Yes I was already aware that a D notice had been issued, but just in case that was not adequate a cover story had also been released. World War Two bomb indeed. I didn't have to look far to decide who pushed that particular tale. Even worse was my having to go back and explain to Dr Lynott, before some kindly person did it for me. I think his immediate reaction was not to follow the implications of this news in in all its enormity . Hospitals he was familiar with, but only when he was roughly in charge. Having his daughter in a small private ward with policemen on the door was an unaccustomed scenario. Judging by his glazed expression, with tears lurking just behind his eyes, my guess was that he was existing on a form of mental auto pilot.

With that self imposed task performed I retreated back to my now accustomed resting spot in the glass and light corridor awaiting the eventual appearance of the spook, my fury mounting as I considered the various implications of us having been kept in the dark. I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by the figure that finally turned up, half an hour earlier than I'd expected. That he'd arrived so quickly only underlined the importance that was being placed on keeping this under wraps. Although I knew who I was expecting by name, I'd only ever had phone contact with that office, I recognised him for what and who he was the moment he pushed his way through the swing doors at the entrance end of the passageway. Something in the walk, the way he took everything in without seeming to look. He was young, thirtyish I'd guess, tall with very piercing eyes and a certain assurance that made me practically fling the paper at him with one sharp word of greeting in the form of a question.

"Satisfied?"

"Not really Keith, No." He glanced at the paper before asking, "How's Dr Lynott?"

I took an almost savage pleasure in replying, "Which one?"

He really looked surprised, which, had I been disposed to be charitable I would have considered to be fair enough, after all I'd had the same reaction myself a couple of hours previously. Having absorbed this he replied interrogatively,

"There's more than one?"

I hastened to enlighten on him on that, plus another minor detail. "Husband's a Dr too. She died half an hour ago."

He seemed stunned by that as well. As we'd kept a news blackout as requested he obviously wouldn't have known that we now had a fatality and with it a problem. A fatality is nigh on impossible to hide and if the probable cause, terrorism, became common knowledge that would lay the service open to a prize public pasting. Possibly deserved if MI5 London had hugged what they describe as Intel to themselves. He paused for a moment as he processed this - for the want of a better term - game changer, taking these altered circumstances and my vented temper on the chin, making no attempt to argue or justify. There again he didn't need to. We both knew who was in charge.

Having established my mild hostility and it with the need to get on with whatever he had in mind, I guided him towards the ward where Sarah lay struggling for life. Just before we reached the police guard Tom halted for a second before saying, "I want to keep the distress to the husband to a minimum. You've already met him I assume."

I nodded to confirm this as I added, in the interests of us getting our story straight, "I told him a colleague would be joining me but I didn't say who."

In a tone of approval he outlined his thoughts, "So if he doesn't know I'm MI5 don't introduce me. We'll see what he has to say without trying to harangue him. You take the lead as long as possible and I'll ask any supplementary questions."

It sounded considerate, but of course it also meant that he could maintain his cover. Personally I rather doubted that Mike Lynott, an intelligent man whose brain cells were still intact, would be fooled for long.

As I'd expected from my earlier visit Mike was still standing beside his daughter's bed looking at her with a despair that made me instantly decide that if the only way by which we could collar whoever had done this required cooperation with the Devil himself then I'd do it. As it was I'd settle for Tom Quinn as a suitable substitute. The ward in which Sarah was being nursed wasn't unattractive, painted in light colours, reasonably modern and airy, it was certainly an improvement on some out of date holes I've visited, but given the state of Sarah, comatose and plugged into numerous machines, it must have represented a form of personal Hell for Mike Lynott. Normally it would have housed more than one patient but, due to the security concerns that were physically isolating the afflicted family, Sarah was lying in solitary state at the far end, on the bed she would never rise from, near to the window she would never look out of.

We entered quietly, with me walking a couple of paces in front of Tom, who was still carrying the paper that had so aroused my ire. I was right about Mike Lynott not being fooled, he already knew something was afoot and being concealed. As he assessed the arrival of the new face he noted the newspaper before saying evenly, but with a just hint of a sob,

"That was no German bomb. I know what's going on here."

Tom equally evenly, but with a mere touch of firmness responded,

"Then you'll know how important your information is to us."

At which point Mike made it plain that Tom's cover had been sussed. "Anti Terrorist Unit, right?"

Whatever I might think of MI5 they are - in the final analysis of who is who and what - professional colleagues and frankly I didn't want to be the one to let daylight in upon the secrecy . I judged it unlikely that Mike Lynott would be tempted to run to the tabloids with his story, but you do never know, and thinking as a policeman I would prefer to avoid letting loose the wave of hysteria that would inevitably hinder the intelligence operations, even if privately I thought they'd landed me with a naff story to cover up the origin of the bomb. So, spearing Tom with a quick glance, I contradicted Mike as I informed him,

"Special Branch."

With that Mike looked to me directly and said the first words that might begin to give us a handle on the whole incident as he admitted with a choke,

"We'd been getting hate mail."

That did surprise me. From behind my back I sensed a quiver run down Tom. I didn't dare look at him as I pursed the issue with the obvious question.

"For how long?"

"We'd had a few last year and got in touch with your lot. Nothing ever happened but the whole business almost broke us both. So when it all started up again I tried to keep it from her."

As he said it a tear began to fall as he blamed himself.

"Should have told her the truth really, shouldn't I?"

The first part of his answer when it came had made me mildly annoyed. Surely once I'd given them the name of the victims someone back at the ranch could have run a computer check and given us some background to work with. Or maybe they had and just hadn't managed to contact me due to the regulations related to mobile phones and hospitals. While I was wondering how to defend our earlier failure to act, a failure that possibly had presented us with this tragedy, Tom went up a couple of notches in my estimation as he leapt into the breach, trying to soothe Mike's distress.

"You were protecting her."

His effort wasn't wholly successful but then, in these circumstances, whose would have been? Mike, now he'd started talking, was continuing to flagellate himself, and I guessed that he probably would do so for the rest of his life.

"I was lying to my wife. My dead wife."

A statement to which there was no answer. Tom had fallen silent, probably wondering, as was I, why exactly the Lynotts had been singled out for such an inhumane fate. Was it specific, or was it random? There was only one way to find out, so stepping into my pretended role as lead officer I asked the question, hoping that Mike would continue to hold himself together. I was all too aware that with what he'd been through today most people would have collapsed by now.

"Why hate mail?"

A straightforward question, to which I received a very straightforward, direct answer.

"We're both family planning doctors. We do abortions, death threats are an occupational hazard."

We didn't need to ask further for reasons, but it fell to Tom to ask the final pertinent question.

"When was the last letter?"

"This morning."

It was as well that we had no more questions to pose, at least for now. Mike Lynott was clearly not capable of taking in much more. From his face it was obvious that he wanted us gone, so he could be left alone to concentrate on willing his desperately injured daughter to live. Tom, with more sensitivity than we tend to associate with spooks – to do what they do and face what they face on a regular basis being hardened to anything the world can present is a job requirement - took me by surprise when he walked over to Sarah's bed and looking down at her bruised and battered face registered the full extent of the damage. While he was preoccupied looked at the girl I wondered briefly if he had children of his own. Nothing I could pin down – I could say that about his entire manner - but I thought I detected a very slight wince followed by a mild undertow of anger. I think, despite neither of us being told so officially, we both knew that the chances were that the bomb would ultimately prove to have murdered two people.

When Tom did finally speak the words were calm, but sympathetic. He at least managed to avoid that occupational hazard of seeming blasé.

"I'm really sorry."

A phrase that sounds inadequate even when heartfelt, which I think this was, but honestly that is about all anyone can say in those circumstances.

I'm not sure that Mike Lynott even heard the words. As we departed it was to the sounds of him once again indulging in personal recriminations as he repeated once more,

"I should have told her."

Once outside the emotional intensity of the ward we were able to relax a little. From his first request it was obvious that Tom's silence as we left was due not just to his being appalled by the sight of the badly injured child, but also to his thinking through what we'd just heard. Once we well out of the uniformed earshot he asked - well instructed might be a more accurate description.

"Can you get an officer to check the Lynott's house and see if they've kept any of that correspondence?"

I must have raised my eyebrows a tad at that as he explained, "I don't want to ask Mike Lynott, you saw the state he was in and if we can get our hands on some of these messages they might just give us a clue." From his tone it seemed that at present they didn't have many or any.

I nodded, "No problem." Then remembering my irritation with my own people I suggested, "We should still have the correspondence that produced their earlier report on file."

He nodded with a flicker of thanks before resuming the great stone face while I stated the obvious.

"I assume you want anything we find sent by secure courier to Thames House."

Having made that gesture, and despite being well aware of just how tight the spooks are with their information, I reckoned that as we were going to have to liaise co-operation cut both ways, encouraging me to venture on an 'in my dreams' verbal fishing trip.

"Be nice to know a little more, Tom. Don't know what it's like down in London these days, but up here, we like to think we're all on the same side."

My unspoken thought, of course, was '_and the way MI5 don't let us know what's happening you'd never think it._' Therefore I wasn't overly shocked at the reply,

"Right now, Keith, this is need to know."

Maybe it was, and it was the response I'd anticipated, but I was getting exasperated. I mean Thames House obviously had information they'd not bothered to share with us and were still refusing to do so, while those of us who based locally were faced with the prospect of trying to contain a mad anti abortion fanatic freely roving around Liverpool. The task of checking out the earlier report of Mike Lynott and then cross referencing it with any other of the same ilk would fall to us as well. Consequently I wasn't exactly patient in my repost.

"I just want to get those bastards. Alright?"

Which was perfectly true. To my surprise the outburst seemed to have some effect as Tom, after giving me hard apprising look – which made me grateful not to be a subject of his interrogation techniques - disgorged the news they'd received, the information that had sent him scurrying up here like no one's business, expect of course it was his business, and mine, and, until we managed to catch the culprit, everyone's .

"Twenty bombs arrived in Liverpool last night."

Christ, he was basically telling me one down, nineteen to go. No wonder they were in a panic, and much as the spooks can annoy you they were right to be both worried and not to spread that little detail around. Before I could comment acerbically about the lack of warning Tom unbent a further inch to explain that they'd only received the definite Intel at around six this morning. By which time it was too late set in train any action that could have prevented Karen Lynott's death. He added that limited though the information had been they had good reasons for accepting that their asset was telling the truth.

Seemingly I hadn't been wrong about the bomb's provenance. One of those wretched Irish splinter groups wanting some ready cash had happily sold on the explosives. With the attitudes they've displayed to what they've perpetrated in their own wretched province the prospect of exporting untraceable terror onto the mainland was probably being viewed as a nice non- monetary bonus.

Given how helpful Tom had been in overstepping the 'need to know' protocol I replied with a heartfelt, "If you need help, and keep us informed as far as possible." Ferreting in my coat pocket I finished with, "Here's my card. Anything at all."

From Tom's face he wasn't used to such cooperation from the police. Usually with their attitudes to everyone else the spying community deserves this so I felt obliged to explain further,

"I want to get those bastards because I have a son, Jimmy, he's about the same age as Sarah."

Ever since we'd announced the pregnancy I'd become accustomed to the expression on his face. After all I'm a bit elderly to have so young a child. Wryly I answered the unspoken thought,

"Jimmy – he was a bit of a surprise."

Actually he was the product of a romantic twentieth wedding anniversary second honeymoon but that would have been too private to share, along with the fact that until the various routine scans and tests had given the all clear we'd had to face up to the possibility of availing ourselves of the professional services of either the Lynott's, or some of their colleagues.

Cutting back on the personal confidences I reiterated to him "I want to give Lynott the satisfaction of knowing we've got them."

Even as I said this I was doubting that anything would. If there's one thing I've learnt through the endless tragedies that have touched me in this job it is that you can't replace anyone, let alone a child.

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	8. Chapter 8: The Husband

**Thanks**_** to those who read the last chapter and the reviews were much appreciated. **_

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They've just left. I hardly said anything. What could I say? They already knew she's dead. She's dead. And I as good as killed her. Whatever anyone says to the contrary, and the police certainly didn't accuse me, that is the truth. I'm to blame. I could have prevented it. That final letter told me that today was the day, but I ignored it, decided it was a false alarm. I chose to think that because it was easier, simpler. I preferred to ignore the possibility that it was for real, anything rather than relive last year. I simply couldn't face coping once again with her anxiety, her nightmares. I was a coward, and now, because of my stupidity she's dead. God I can't believe it, but I must because she is. I saw it for myself as the final flicker of her heartbeat collapsed into a dead straight line on the monitor, extinguishing that final hopeless hope. I knew she'd die when they brought her in. No possibility of survival, not with that degree of burns. All they could do was make her comfortable and wait. How often have I seen that, done that, ministered the medication, sat with the relatives during the final breath, assuring them that it was for the best. Maybe it was, is, but nothing hides the basic fact, she's gone and I could have prevented it.

How can this happen? How? I know we are all just one heartbeat, one breath away from that ultimate oblivion but even so how? She left the house alive and calm, her last look at myself and our daughters, the usual early morning expression, a combination of love shot through with mild irritation at being delayed. A mind set operating on the expectation that any difficulties could be smoothed over when she'd returned for our usual quiet family evening. A normal morning with a normal routine, barring the one small change to which she shot that curious glance, my final - it won't happen but just in case - check under the car. I didn't really believe it. Why should I, all the earlier warnings had come to naught, a fuss about nothing that had died down leaving just a mild ripple of apprehension to haunt me. I thought we were safe, that she was safe. With no sign of anything alarming to be seen beneath the exhaust I made an excuse to her for my unexpected action, heaving with inward relief as I watched her back away from us secure in the knowledge that I'd been right not to warn her.

Then the car exploded, our lives exploded.

My wife, my dead wife. Whatever anyone says I as good as killed her. If only I'd faced down Karen's worries and told her about the new threats. If only I'd held Sarah tighter, run after her and caught her as she followed Karen's car. We were four, a happy and contented family, normal, ordinary. Now we are three, shortly we may become just be two. I don't know how I survive this and yet I must. I need to hold together. I can't collapse, Karen is gone, I want to scream and shout but I have to strong, controlled. I need to be with Sarah, talk to her, she may still be able to hear. She needs to know that she is loved, that we want her to return to us. And then, when I finally make it home, somehow I have to comfort Clare.

God how do I tell Clare that her mother is dead, she saw everything that happened and at four she's old enough to be worried, frightened. What is she feeling after seeing her Mum and sister taken away by ambulance. As a matter of necessity I had to leave her with a neighbour, dump her as she was crying. I know Margaret will take good care of her, but Clare needed me, her father, cuddling her, reassuring her, telling her that it would be alright but I couldn't. Instead I had to walk away. How can she understand why? One thing Karen and I vowed was that we would never lie to our children, but how can I tell her the truth? How can she understand that some faceless unknown person hated her mother for what she does - for what she did – so badly they wanted to murder her. I had to be with Karen. Now I must stay with Sarah. I also ought to be with Clare. Split myself into two and be strong when instead I'm falling apart. I don't know how I can cope with this, and yet I must. I have no option. I don't know who needs who more. The girls need me and I need them to give me purpose. I want to cry, throw things but I can't because if I once collapse I don't know if I will ever pull myself together again.

I keep seeing the sight of the car rolling over and over. Who, I know why but who? People die every day but this is faceless and useless, because nothing will stop or prevent abortions. They claimed it's God's work. That they are the instruments of his commands. If that is so then their non existent God is a bastard.

The police are keeping guard outside. Too late, the damage is done. The plain clothes man, elderly, sympathic and unobtrusive, he kept me informed of the lies being told, that the cause of her death was being reported as an unfortunate accident, due to the unexpected detonation of an ancient bomb, not the truth that it was a deliberately plotted hate crime. Then later he returned with another officer – I think they recognised what I was going through. Like me they cope with the bereaved every day, unlike me the deaths they deal with are usually unexpected, horrific, terrifying. They were polite, they didn't linger, but they had to ask, "Why hate mail?" What could I say? I told them what I knew. Which was nothing, other than my wife had been killed. I was past being angry that the truth is not being told. Karen is dead so does the provenance of the bomb that killed her really matter? We thought we had all the time in the world together, to grow old together, watch our children as they grew, guide them, see them marry, play with our grandchildren. An entire future gone, literally in a flash. Her sole worry this morning was that she was late, running out of time. Now she is late. And has time no longer.

She's dead, the end of her, but God what is this the start of? I killed my wife by not warning her, by keeping the threats a secret. Will that useless effort to protect her mean that I'll eventually have to face up to the further knowledge that through my well intentioned silence I've killed countless others by proxy? That I've not just paved my own road to Hell but laid down a footpath for others to follow behind me. The road of grief that I will tread endlessly for the rest of my life.

The threats, the literature we received, illustrated with vile pictures told me that we were both servants of the anti Christ. Called us both murderers. I am now. The officers came to see me because they need to find the culprit. I virtually told them that I know who the culprit is, who was responsible for the death of my wife.

They were looking at him.

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_**If you were expecting Harry's Operational Notes worry not, they will continue to be scattered through the story.**_


	9. Chapter 9: Harry's Operational Notes 4

**Thanks for reading and for the reviews to the last angst ridden chapter. Now on with Harry's POV**

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**2 May 2002 (8.15 pm)** Preliminary assessment of information from Liverpool and resultant actioning.

a) The bomb has been confirmed as originating from an Irish source. No warning given and no one has claimed responsibility which would seem to confirm that the Intel stating the bombs were sold on to another possibly non-sectarian buyer was accurate.

b) The Lynott family were first targeted with death threats twelve months ago, with a recent follow up stating that they would be attacked today. This has been confirmed from the material handed to the local police/Special Branch last year (negative results to investigation) and examples of the more recent hate mail obtained by Tom Quinn.

c) Due to the content of these communications current working theory is that the perpetrators belong to a group including a person or persons with links to Irish contacts and an anti abortion organisation. Alternatively it may be the work of a lone wolf with a similar profile.

d) Staff members Danny Hunter and Malcolm Wynn-Jones are researching known pro-life groups in the UK but none has any history of violence or threatening behaviour. Current status: most have been on low level watch list for several years. No significant change in behaviour has been detected.

e) In the absence of any further Intel an operation tracking the asset and her contacts has been prioritised with the objective of acquiring a more positive lead or leads. Zoe Reynolds has been designated the named officer coordinating the surveillance.

Note if another bomb is detonated the current cover story will not hold. Keith Burns the Special Branch officer who attended the scene in the first instance, now acting as the MI5 Section D/Special Branch liaison, has already expressed concerns relating to maintaining the current line. Section on standby to issue a D notice and a distraction story as planned.

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_I was forced to contact the Home Office with an update. Not that I really had much choice. If I hadn't kept them informed they'd have consulted Special Branch and I'd rather get in with my advice first. My resultant confirmation that this latest outrage was almost certainly not the unconstructed Irish at play was greeted with huge wafts of relief echoing down the secure line. If it wasn't quite, 'Rejoice, rejoice – All is well. Ring out the bells of London', it was damn well near it. Truthfully I wonder what planet these spin doctors inhabit. I'd be tempted to lump the civil servants in with that assertion, but will refrain on the self serving grounds that technically I suppose I'm one of that fellowship, although when I'm confronted with the unrestrained glee I've just heard – it's not the Irish so whoopee - I tend to transform into a very uncivil servant indeed. _

_Let's see, a normal working day within this Section requires us to cope with: _

_a) the remaining threat from Ireland, _

_b)Islamists, who while acting in the name of Allah, the merciful and peaceful, are attempting to bomb everyone to buggery, _

_c)the rebuilding of the Cold War under the aegis of Putin, who's crawled out from underneath his stone, and is now busily re-establishing democracy in Russia, KGB style, _

_d) provide back up and support for joint operations with other sections with reference to the nefarious activities of assorted drug dealers, porn merchants and bunny huggers. _

_And now, with that tidal way of terror drifting across my desk on a daily basis, the prats I report to consider that the introduction of an untraceable group of rampaging anti abortionists (killing in the name of life, as Tom so succinctly put it to me) into that toxic mixture is good news! Give me strength – or failing that a triple single malt. _

_As if I didn't have enough problems courtesy of the weird mental processes of the Home Office Tom also told Keith Burns rather more was necessary on the usual need to know basis. His excuse was, and is, that Burns has been unusually helpful due to his having a young son the same age as Sarah Lynott. I've since been advised from the first stage vetting that coincidentally Ellie Simm has a daughter who is their contemporary age wise. I just hope Tom hasn't gone soft. A wobbly Section Chief I can do without. Fortunately Burns is an older man and, from what I can make out, is well thought of within his own service so with luck he won't be too PC about how we go about getting the bastards._

_From the strictly operational pov it will be interesting to see how Zoe copes with this extra responsibility as she hasn't had to co-operate with the Manchester crowd before, and they are bound to feel a certain parochial resentment at being superseded by a young fast tracked officer, especially one from London. When Tom announced his decision, while I wouldn't go as far as to call it annoyance, I got the distinct sense that Danny was a little peeved at being passed over for the task. Understandable when he and Zoe were appointed at about the same time. It wasn't a call I envied Tom, both are fine young talents and should go far - provided they survive and/or avoid capture by a hostile power. I didn't comment, although if pushed I would have endorsed Tom's decision. Danny tends to be a little impulsive and overreach himself. He reminds me very much of Lucas North, another promising officer, currently being housed in Russian prison. _

_That was a few years ago, and while Lucas might be gone he's not been forgotten, by me at least. I won't rest until we get him back. I keep angling for a prisoner exchange – and I'll continue doing so. One day I will succeed, I simply have to wait impatiently for the spying weathercock to turn in the winds of temporary détente. The realisation that I'm one of the few to remember Lucas, along with other issues make me feel very old at times. Today, for example, I overheard Zoe and Danny saying that none of the pro-life groups seemed to be an active threat. I felt impelled to remind them both that anything can seem innocuous and non- threatening until suddenly it is. Oh to be young and optimistic again. I remember how burnt out and disillusioned Clive McTaggart was when he retired. I can only hope that doesn't happen to me a few years down the line. _

_If the surveillance throws up nothing helpful I really don't know where we go from here. Given that the section's walking encyclopaedia, aka Malcolm the usually infallible, can't discover even a whisper for us to start working on really worries me. It implies that the culprits are completely under our current radar. Even worse, if possible, is that as a result of this almost total ignorance we've no idea how long we have before all Hell is let loose via bomb number two. __For now trapped inside their tunnel vision, while it has the advantage of keeping them off my back somewhat, it seems to have entirely escaped the notice of our political masters that we still have nineteen dangerous devices secreted somewhere in the ownership of set of murderous fanatics we can't trace. Knowing the mindset of our glorious leaders, __ie it isn't an emergency unless it happens in London, their current blase attitude will snap into blame mode the instant one of the unaccounted for bombs explodes in the capital, which my unspoken risk assessment regards as a distinct possibility. _

_To be effective in my post you have to think like the opposition in order to defeat them. If I were the enemy I'd pick small target as a test run, and then if successful - which the effort in Liverpool undoubtedly was - extend the mayhem into London as the bigger, more public stage on which to announce my arrival. _

_That I'm fighting on several fronts won't stop the Home Office from howling at me if we don't catch the culprits in time to prevent this scenario. __I know that tracking down these nutters is our job but, despite the persistent rumours about Malcolm's sexuality, we aren't a bunch of fairies who can solve all problems by flitting around waving a magic wand. _

_Now there's a thought to conjure with on sleepless nights. My own private list of one hundred people to hex before I die, and number one would be….. _

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**_Thanks for reading. if you have a moment to spare please review._**


	10. Chapter 10: The Tail

_**Thanks for reading the last chapter and for the reviews. Now on with the another backstory based on the Kudos plot. There may be some minor variations from what was seen on screen, the dialogue and action in this part of the episode was so speedy it was difficult to break down. **_

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The bustle of the city centre. The best place in which to become anonymous. The people, nondescript, busy, preoccupied with their own affairs – seemingly. Within that constantly swirling kaleidoscope of humans who would notice the planted watcher? Answer: a covert person would, one who knew they were wanted would, one who trusted no one would.

Which was why the woman wearing the long, dull purplish coat sporting a barely made up face framed by lank brown hair - a look deliberately designed to foster an impression of someone who was depressingly middle aged and unremarkable in anyway whatsoever - was currently occupied in a pretence of rapt window shopping as she attempted to out covert the covert. Had she told anyone what her job actually consisted of, that she watched people, followed them, tracked their movements, it would have sounded more than a mite creepy. To put it bluntly she earned her living by stalking. Overall then she considered it fortunate that the essential secrecy imposed by the job description meant she didn't have to explain any of this. Not that she felt the need, or any indeed any obligation, to justify what she did.

To those who had nothing to fear she was simply a dumpy ageing woman whose drab coat was symbolic of an equally drab life. A woman with nothing on her mind beyond fish fingers, who probably obtained her pathetic kicks from reading slightly racy historical romances. To those who really did have something to fear she presented likewise. It was her very negative physical appearance that made her so valuable to her employers. For the purposes of anyone who asked, a category that included her husband, she was employed as market researcher cum secret shopper. A cover that effectively explained why she spent so much time hanging around city centre streets and the occasional evening away – training and/or conferences she told those who needed to know, near enough if the not exact truth. When she had informed them during that final tough interview - grilling would have been the more apposite term - that '_no actually so far her family didn't know she was planning to join the security service and she'd be happy to keep it that way_' some of the panel had actually forgotten themselves far enough to essay a sketch of a smile, before the Chairman commented, 'You sound like a born spook'. At the time of that declaration the issue of secrecy hadn't mattered. She'd been single and alone, then about two years into the job she'd begun dating the man destined to become her partner. She'd stuck to the legend of consumer research when they'd first met, and once he'd been positively vetted it had seemed an awful shame to worry him. Or was she really afraid that if he discovered her lie he'd walk away. To date she'd salved her conscience with the thought that 'everyone has some secrets' she just happened to have more than most, and who knew the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about anyone else anyway.

Spook. It fitted her well. As she'd quickly discovered _'Hiding in plain sight'_ was the creed of the surveillance officers, and no one outside of the service would believe the training she'd endured before the she could consider herself qualified to stand here, with her entire glassy eyed attention apparently riveted onto the advertising banner pasted on the side of a passing bus. In reality, as always when she was waiting for the fun to begin, she was pondering the road that had led to her transparent presence in this shopping centre. Ignored by the world at large who precisely would notice the extraordinary accoutrements to her cheap clothing, namely an earpiece discreet to the point of invisibility and a suitably doctored mobile phone, the latter hand held and switched on, ready at a push to contact the handler who sat observing the team's every movement from somewhere in the ether.

She had arrived as this destination via an almost casual combination of chance, dare and unsuspected aptitude. One day, now long gone, bored to the point of screaming with her repetitive unchallenging office job she'd begun googling about world affairs at large and happened upon the MI5 website. Intrigued as she idled her way through the map reading section she'd been astounded to discover that she'd found it too yawningly easy. A couple of days later, after yet one more session with a brainless boss who thought even filing was a task beyond her abilities, she'd applied in a fit of temper. To her apprehension and amazement the application hadn't been instantly binned. Instead following on from a very secret preliminary interview at a local office her name had gone forward for further consideration. That had been followed by a huge number of tests, at the conclusion of which she'd been accepted for training as surveillance officer. After an even longer drilling in such basics as counter interrogation techniques, speed reading, firearms, emergency first aid, use of call signs, decoding etc etc followed by psychological tests to ensure, she presumed, that she was stable, she'd formally joined the service. Once through that set of hurdles training for her chosen speciality had kicked in, heralding weeks of walking more miles that she cared to remember, in all weathers, as she practiced not being seen and remaining endlessly alert while mastering the intricacies of the various patterns of foot surveillance. So now here she stood, rewarded for all that effort by being required to dress in utterly frumpy clothes and a wig. So much for the glamorous life of a spy.

Today's job was, as usual, need to know, but it didn't take a genius to work out that it was related to the so called World War Two bomb that had killed Dr Karen Lynott yesterday. It was a given that she would never ever be entrusted with the whole picture. A necessary precaution, foot and car surveillance was nowhere near as dangerous as some parts of field work but one slip...well you never knew. Thinking about the odd pieces of gossip that sometimes filtered back with reference to the fate of certain operatives she reflected that perhaps it was better that they didn't. The work varied, today though she was to form part of what was referred to as an ABC grid, one of several teams of unerotic threesomes scattered around the city centre. Her role being that of C. A straightforward enough operation despite its requiring the involvement of large numbers of personnel to ensure an in depth, wide ranging cover, necessary since no one could ever predict for certain the route favoured by the watched. A simple truth that amply accounted for the low percentage of actual suspects glimpsed versus the total number of operations she'd participated in. Not that she was complaining about that, if the mind and movements of the tracked were obvious the service would have no need to maintain such a large staffing establishment, and she'd be out of a job that for the most part consisted of standing around in city centres being consciously inconspicuous. The accused of course also aimed at staying under the radar. _'Hiding in plain sight'_ was not just the prerogative of the security services, which was precisely why the majority of her work took place populous crowded areas. It was like a game of chess, although she preferred not to consider that particular comparison, not when her level equated to pawn and every player knew that they were the most disposable.

Earlier in the day they'd all met in a nearby office for the briefing. A money advisory outfit according to the external signage, while in fact it was a cover allowing for the regular comings and goings of individuals ranging from the smart suited and booted to the vaguely dodgy and scruffy. In fact to a certain extent the office did do what it said on the tin, like the best cover stories it wasn't an entire lie. True the premises were run and staffed by security service personnel, but those who occupied the front office were also qualified financial advisors, dispensing out advice to the genuine customers while, having sifted through various life stories, they subsequently reported back to base on those who were criminal enough, desperate enough, or possibly malleable enough to be recruited as assets. It was an effective unquestioned cover. Everyone was expected to have money troubles so no eyebrows would be raised by small groups arriving separately at different times and leaving likewise. No good them all going and coming out mob handed, that would be the definition of rotten tradecraft. The initial instructions were that they needed track a woman code named Osprey, but to be alert to the likelihood that it was her contacts that they'd really need to follow. So here they were, divided into trios, forming a human daisy chain across the shopping hub, lined up and primed to play pass the suspect or suspects with all bases were covered, including the possibility of their having to follow more than one person should Osprey met with a group.

Some of the operatives she already knew and today, as a happy bonus, she was teamed with two men she'd worked with before. Mohammed, his Pakistani origin was in itself a protection. To those who thought in stereotypes - and training had informed her that this common, regrettable trait was extremely useful for the task they were engaged in - his ethnic origin instantly dispelled any suspicion that he was an MI5 operative. Mohammed was her Alpha, with Beta being represented by the archetypal overweight, shaven headed incarnation of a bloke named Dave, leaving her as C. She supposed a rampant feminist would object to not being the Alpha or the Beta but in this they were all equal and anyway she was paid the same, which was all that really bothered her. Leaving as they'd arrived in their small groups, remembering to look haggard and careworn, they had proceeded to lodge themselves within mutual eyelines in strategic places around the city centre.

Now as she waited she felt the usual curl of excitement in her stomach, although with the inevitable apprehensions of failure. The task entrusted to them was important, as was every mission. Even though she rarely knew what happened in the end game it was a truism that frequently the eventual outcomes depended upon the comparatively lowly surveillance officers getting it right. She'd certainly never learn the ultimate result, successful or otherwise, about this one since, unusually, it was being guided from London with the buck stopping there as well. As an issue though that niggle was currently assuming a secondary importance when set alongside the more immediate question as to how much longer she could realistically feign an interest in tacky contents of the shop window she'd been staring at for several minutes without arousing suspicions that could abort the operation before it began. A consideration abruptly truncated when, with a warning crackle in the ear piece, it all kicked off. The call to action, even if for now she had to remain looking uninterested in anything, barring the joys of inexpensive retail therapy.

Without missing a beat she moved her position slightly, as if casually planning to move on, as she registered the first announcement,

'Osprey in sight. Sighted with a new face. Confirm.'

Silently catching her breath she waited. Osprey they knew about, but in these situations the question always remained, did they prepare to follow the asset or the contact? Much depended on the first movements observed, and then upon what was required when viewed through the perspective of the larger picture, and that was a judgement call that could only be made by the operation supervisor. Looking around with a pretence of the casual she registered the next instruction.

'Confirmed. All officers, new face is live.'

They were off. Checking surreptitiously the location of A and B she clocked her Alpha sitting quietly near the pair under observation. As the suspects bade each other farewell and the male began to move away the chosen name for the target was fed into her ear.

'Will identify as Falco.' Followed by the key order.

'Leave Osprey, follow Falco.'

Like the well drilled team they were in simultaneous synch with the words 'Pick up Falco' reaching her ear Alpha began his move, standing and nonchalantly following a few paces behind the target. Picking up on the cream coat of her A rated colleague she noted the salient facts of the target in detail as taught. If they failed to obtain a photograph then those who'd actually seen him would have to collaborate on an identikit to be run through the various databases. Not an easy task since his appearance was every bit as undistinguished as that of herself and her two well disguised colleagues.

Facial Features: Long face (slightly ratty or was that just her perception because of what he did) Short hair.

Body height; Tallish, thin.

Clothes: Standard denim jeans, black Tee shirt, lighter, possible blue and white striped shirt some form of jacket greenish – she couldn't be quite sure from this distance but he was moving with a steady gait, while it was announced to the listeners,

'Alpha picking up. Alpha still on Falco.'

Then it happened. Falco, who'd been moving steadily forwards suddenly halted, a pause allegedly to light a cigarette but from the way he searchingly scanned the area around him he was on the lookout for something, or someone. He was good she'd admit, only those trained to watch would have realised that their prey was checking out how the land lay, seeing if he was safe. The old competition of who could out watch whom was in playing in full force. On cue as Alpha, with an appearance of total unconcern caught up with Falco came the next instruction,

"Keep your distance Falco snagged. Beta."

As Alpha continued his seemingly unrelated stroll, approaching and then overtaking the target, Beta responding with hidden alacrity took over the close contact, still behind Falco, who after his short pause had continued on his journey allowing Beta cum Dave to whisper to their control, "Beta picking up".

From her positon on the opposite side of the road she began to move slowly, keeping her distance but still aligned with the walkers. Suddenly, so quickly it almost took her by surprise, Falco turned and crossed the road. As he did so she prepared herself to follow the orders now being transferred to her remit for direct action, "Charlie pick up. He's crossing the road. Pick up Falco."

She had only just managed an under the breath murmur of 'Picking up', when a red taxi suddenly drew up farther down the road. Schooling her well trained face not to show the sudden frission of apprehension that rippled through her as Falco seemed to approach, she was treated to the sight of him throwing his unfinished cigarette into the nearby waste bin. Suddenly connecting the disposal of the half smoked cigarette with the arrival of the taxi now halting at the kerbside she was forced into hurriedly advising. "Falco getting into car.'"

Damn they were about to lose him but she had no time to curse as the next urgent request came through, 'Alpha can you get a shot' Speedily she tried to comply and succeeded in capturing not Falco but a further new face appearing in the rear window of the now retreating taxi.

As L857 XEWP, registration automatically noted by her for further reference, pulled away she heard the reassuring sound of Delta picking up. With its standout colour tracing and tracking the vehicle should be a relatively straightforward task for another team. Now as she reverted to the status of a spectator she listened into the continuing saga.

'Another new face, another new face. Can you get a shot and continue following.'

Halted but still maintaining her window shopping cover she noted that the taxi was being followed by a surveillance car. The traffic staff would now take over, tracking, reporting, and then another batch of officers would continue with covert observation, take pictures, follow up contacts, but for her it was finished. As if to confirm that her part was over the next instruction arrived.

"Stand Down and return to HQ for your de brief."

And now the excitement was over with the passing of the adrenalin surge she felt flat, the initial elation of having been at the centre of the action receding into a feeling best characterised as: Was this it? Yes she knew it was, until the next time. Just another day's work completed. Job done, with the public none the wiser that they, that team of ordinary people, had just made the city streets, perhaps the country, a safer place. The irony never failed to tickle her, in most jobs the successful were rewarded and praised openly for the public to acclaim, in this world, except for a very few, success was measured in secrecy. With her eyes washing over the team members she couldn't publicly acknowledge, and to avoid blowing her cover just in case they'd missed someone they might have to follow in the future, she crossed the road, entering the small conveniently placed supermarket she'd noted earlier.

She'd make her way back to the office in a few minutes but now just had time to undertake some shopping for real as she set about buying some chops for Derek's dinner this evening. After all she had more than one cover to preserve.

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	11. Chapter 11: Harry's Operational Notes 5

_Sorry for the delay but RL has really hit over the last couple of weeks or so. Anyway thanks to all those who read and of course to those who reviewed. Note the series only ever gave Mary's support team their first names so I've added surnames. Re some of Harry's comments - as this is not an AU fiction I'm trying to tie his thoughts in with my post 10.6 stories. _

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**May 3 15. 00** Surveillance result: Tracking of the asset led us to a contact (code name Falco) who subsequently met with a woman featured on the ports warning list. Failure to arrest her at the point of entry six weeks ago due to her use of a false passport. Alias used: Denise Marsden. Real name: Mary Kane. Nationality American. Digest of research undertaken by officers, Zoe Reynolds, Danny Hunter and Malcolm Wynne-Jones has produced the following major points.

a) She has been convicted in absentia for her part in bombing the Absalom abortion clinic in Florida which produced several fatalities

b) Her husband Paul Kane is due to be executed by electric chair on Saturday.

c) The organisation they were part of was/is called _'Defenders of the Innocent'_ combined with a name and shame website '_Call_ _to Justice'. _

d) Since her arrival it would seem that she has been living with a man called Steven Barfield in a rented cottage in the Wirral. Pictures of him, his sister (Rachel Goldsmith) and her husband (Robert Goldsmith) now on file. Initial Intel based on further tracking of the taxi and Falco, and their subsequent contacts.

e) Mary Kane's first victim was the doctor who performed an abortion when she was operated on for appendicitis at the age of fifteen. His death twenty five years later in what we assume was a revenge attack suggests she is keen on blood bolstered anniversaries.

Working theory of the team is that Mary has been invited here to continue the anti-abortion campaign on British soil. Her aim: to create a network of terror to commemorate her husband. He is scheduled for execution on Saturday making it probable that a major target has been selected for liquidation on that date. Currently we are unable to ascertain the size of the organisation involved or any of their planned targets. Assumption is that a UK website mirroring the US one exists containing full details of potential victims.

Further Intel arrived during meeting. Only five of the bombs are pipe bombs, the rest are Semtex with a capacity for wide spread devastation. Have agreed to bug the cottage Mary Kane is currently residing in with the aim of obtaining further Intel. Lead operative to be Zoe Reynolds reporting back to Tom Quinn for instruction/decisions as required. Operation will be coded top secret with only MI5 operatives to be involved. Manchester branch to be contacted and asked to make staff available for the operation. Danny Hunter to continue searching for the English website on the dark web. Malcolm Wynn Jones to set up and organise distance monitoring of existing prolife groups, the current suspects, plus any further individuals who may be implicated.

_I wish I could use my own team but the locals do know the area best and I'm forced to consider my budget. We're just at the start of the financial year and heaven knows what else we'll have thrown at us by its end. Looking at the allocated cash flow I'd characterise the main weapon in the 'War against Terror' as an abacus backed up by windy proclamations from the politicians. These days I spend more time arguing with the bean counters than I do with the Home Secretary, which is really saying something. In the absence of being able to use my own crack troops I've finally pulled rank and insisted to Manchester that they use their best personnel even if they have to remove them from other operations. They protested a little until I explained about the Semtex, the memory of the IRA bomb of '96 still lingers there. I also made sure I praised their efforts so far. To give them their due they have done a good job and an occasional resort to the honey jar sometimes works better than a harangue. Malcolm gave me the names of the most reliable techies working out of that office, he trained several of them and I trust his judgement. He's as big a fixture in Section D as myself and has seen nearly as much operation wise as I have - to the point were most of us owe our lives to his geeky machinations. Long may he stay - once he retires I'll be left managing this near kindergarten on my own._

_On the issue of those who've been here for a long time, possibly too long, I was forced to leap in and defend Tessa to Tom, which really went against the grain when I know that she seeks every conceivable opportunity to undermine me. Unfortunately she's too good at her job for me to get rid of – I wish. As I learnt in the military one disaffected officer can wreck endless havoc on morale. In this instance though I endorsed her protest that she couldn't have done anything to circumvent that particular cock up and despite my anger with the port authorities I'm forced to admit that they are every bit as stretched as we in here. I seem to remember hearing that Catherine and Graham both had to do a couple of weeks work experience when they were at school (heaven alone knows what some unfortunate employer had done to be stuck with Graham and his second hand opinions) but perhaps the idea ought to be extended to our politicians. Let's see them spend a week with Customs and Excise trying to check the passport and documents of someone with limited English while an irate queue of middle class middle England builds up behind. Pick out which of the seemingly normal travellers are indoctrinated killers, work out whether or not someone who can't answer questions accurately is criminal or just vague. Combine that with a few sessions of donning the rubber gloves as a precursor to checking anal cavities for drugs and I'd be willing to bet that the budgets for that part of public service would inexplicably rocket._

_On a personal level I'm really worried about the ramifications of this bomb protest group – seemly the US website, on which we assume they are modelling themselves, carries the implication that they will go after anyone who may have had any association with supporting abortion. Great! That could be just about the entire population of medics and pro-abortion organisations to watch out for and protect without us, referencing my earlier comments re the abacus and windbags, having been gifted the resources to do so. Even worse do I have to ask my ex if my daughter could possibly be affected? Given her hair raising career - or in my case hair losing - let alone whatever she may be up to in her personal life I can just hear that conversation going well. Ever assuming that Jane doesn't put the phone down on me the moment she hears my voice. _

_This virtually non contact is tedious and hurtful, deliberately so I'm sure - Jane's targeted revenge for what she sees as my years of neglect. I don't really need to be continually reminded that I stuffed up in so many ways on the family front, I know it, but really considering that it's been fifteen years and counting since the divorce, when combined with the number of times I've had to bail out Graham thanks to his addiction to soft drugs, you'd think by now she'd have dropped the uncaring father routine. If, as she endlessly claimed while citing Robin the wondrous as being a much more wholesome influence, I was the one damaging the children how come Graham's career as a pot head started after I was forced to butt out? Overall that's a real parenting triumph for her, aided that smooth, self regarding, sanctimonious git. _

_I freely admit I wasn't around much for the three of them– due to the little matter of having to earn a living. I also admit I wasn't exactly faithful, but when it comes slinging to the endless accusations about the extra martial poking act perhaps she should take a good look in the mirror, prior to admitting that she's about as pure as the driven slush herself. Claiming she was working all those extra hours just for the money. Nothing will ever convince me that it wasn't a form of payment in kind contract whereby she got the extra teaching hours and Cock Robin got personal services delivered in the staffroom! Damn the pair of them – I could just about forgive the infidelity, people in glass houses and all that, but what I will never forgive is the poison they poured into the ears of my children. All I can do is hang in there and hope one day someone might have a change of heart. _

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	12. Chapter 12: Harry's Operational Notes 6

_**Sorry it's been so long to produce such a very short update. I'm hoping life will be a little less bonkers in a few days time. This is an amalgam of parts of the script that were never broadcast and my own thoughts. **_

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15.10 Zoe Reynolds has been dispatched to Liverpool. She will met the Manchester operatives in the undercover office they use as their central Liverpool working base. Confirmation has been received that the preliminary cottage phonetap is working and that the premises will be unoccupied for part of the evening, allowing the bugging operation to go ahead with minimum delay.

16.00 Reports of explicit anti-abortion posters appearing in hospitals throughout the country. D notice issued to press with immediate effect.

_We've managed to get all the posters removed and the press muzzled, for now, but this is an alarming development implying a nationwide network primed for action. For all we know the remaining nineteen bombs have been scattered around the country with a planned simultaneous detonation – possibly timed to coincide with Paul Kane's execution. While we continue to scrap for Intel I can only clutch at two possible straws. Firstly that Mary is a control freak and as such will insist on being personally present at the detonation of every individual bomb which means a total of nineteen separate explosions – how's that for a best case scenario! Secondly, since it is not exactly easy to obtain these explosives – against all the odds the customs and excise staff do have an occasional success in catching up with the smuggling undesirables - she might opt to spread out the agony, aiming to keep up the pressure/publicity for her glorious cause ! - while she attempts to source fresh supplies. Also of course there is a chance that since fly posting hospital notice boards with gory images is a much more vanilla tactic than actually killing people with a bit of luck most of her admiring cohorts will ultimately prove to be more mouth than murderous action. Mary may be a cold blooded killer – actually no may about it – hot or cold blooded she's a killer - but it doesn't follow that her acolytes are all cast in the same mould. _

_Even so I'm really desperately hoping that tonight's activities yield something, a something we can keep secret, as I've just been informally advised by the mole I placed in the Home Office that the Americans are kicking up and demanding the return of Mary Kane forthwith. Yes correct: I've adopted the first rule of spying, which is never trust anyone, a protocol that I apply with especial reference to our elected leaders. Men of high principles, as evidenced by their willingness to kiss the baby, then covertly, having distracted the cooing public, would unblinkingly flog off its granny to a foreign conglomerate. All in the national interest of course, which just happens to include a nice lucrative advisors fee. All above board in the same way that my left leg plays jingle bells. _

_So the Americans want a piece of our action! That's the Special relationship for you, we catch, they extradite, all the while boasting about winning the war against terror! Given the arrogant way they treat their allies - bend over, pants down while I roger you - they have the nerve to wonder why no one likes them! _

_I need to inform Tom about this development but as he apparently has something important on tonight with Ellie Simm I'll tell him tomorrow. What I really need to know, because my contact couldn't that find that one out, is who leaked this information to the Home Office. If it transpires that it was Keith Burns then I'll really have something to say to Tom, assuming he still retains the power of speech after I've used my un tuneful right leg to boot his backside up to where his brain allegedly resides. _

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**_Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be appreciated. _**


	13. Chapter 13: The Techie

_**Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter. Apologies in advance to any readers who live in the Wirral. Please note some of the attitudes expressed are not those of the author. **_

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Testing testing. For the record this is a routine equipment check to ensure that recording quality would be sustained during a long interrogation. So here goes….

My name is John and I'm a spook. No not a ghost, the other kind, the invisible men who spy. Tell anyone that you are a spy and they all go '_Ah James Bond' _and then assume that you spend your life seducing fit birds. I wish. No part of that assumption is accurate, for starters James Bond was Six and I'm employed by Five, and I don't work in London either. I'm based in sun kissed Manchester and we cover the North West of England. Usually we don't have much to do with the London lot. They occupy themselves in the perpetual pursuit of the assorted terrorist loons who keep attempting to imitate Guy Fawkes, only with more success. Whatever time they have left over from that never ending task is taken up with ensuring the safety of HM Queen and her extensive family, not to mention protecting the honourable members who all vanish into the Westminster boozing hole once the election is done and dusted. That's them London MI5, the alphabetised sections of an elite corps anchored in the capital doing all the important work – or so they imply. Meanwhile those of us domiciled in what the civilised individuals who live south of the Watford Gap persist in regarding as the Northern wastelands - occupied exclusively by those with thick accents and even thicker heads - drew the straw labelled 'remnants from Ireland', ie the tow rags who've ignored the peace process and hijacked the various para military groups as a political front for organised crime. For our fun time variation we get _'Al Quaeda: Trans Pennine'_ branch to sort out.

That's how it is usually, but a couple of week ago it was a little different. I'd missed the curtain raiser as I was stuck on a drugs operation. When I finally hit Headquarters to make my report the office was full of it. A bomb had exploded in Allerton killing a female doctor and rumour had it that this was the start of something huge, so of course the big boys from London took over. Next thing they knew Harry Pearce's merry men were stamping around our patch. The first one had arrived in the form of his Section Chief, Tom Quinn, described to me by my mate as a long tall prong whose face would crack if he smiled. He flew in spreading joy and bonhomie on the wings of the story that the bomb was an unexploded World War two leftover. Do me a favour, whoever thought that one up should be sacked: an entire housing estate plus road built over ancient ironmongery and no one noticed! After a short few hours Quinn returned to his usual haunts, a brief pause ensued, and then part two arrived in the form of a crack surveillance team playing chasies around Liverpool city centre. Given the amount of money they must have spent on that I was tempted to consider setting a bomb off myself – perhaps then I could wrung some new equipment out of the tight fisted gits and I wouldn't now be stuck here talking myself silly as the only realistic method of checking out a recording machine that's on the wobble. Anyway as I was saying - I was even more tempted in that respect when it Act Three poked up its demanding head.

Apparently the woman responsible for all this hassle was an American called Mary Kane. She and her adorable husband specialised in killing abortionists and, as a result, had collected a capital sentence apiece back in the US of A. With her old man due to be fried in the electric chair Mary had escaped over to little ol' England and was now shacked up with a bloke called Steve in a rented cottage in the Wirral. The theory emanating from London was that she was assuaging her broken heart by planning a bombing campaign to commemorate her hubby. While they were probably right - I'm forced to admit that Section D has a good record in second guessing homicidal nutters - if its personnel ever poked their metropolitan noses in the general direction of the Wirral they might have realised that boredom probably played its part in bringing her plans to fruition. Honest, with the prevailing winds from whatever direction whipping across a terrain consisting of freezing mud flat beaches populated by seagulls shitting everywhere, it's a real hive of activity – provided you are a birdwatcher with a yen for having your privates frozen to shrinking point. Anyway London decreed that while they needed more information as a special treat for the natives they'd graciously allow the local yokels to do the donkey work. Good of them I'm sure. Which was where I came in – apparently I'd made my way onto their list of most reliable techies – fame at last, but as we obviously couldn't be trusted without Big Brother, or in this case the Fat Controller, aka Harry Pearce breathing down our necks the actual job would be overseen by one of their own.

We were at least spared the presence of the long tall prong. I mean I know the job's serious but you need a laugh. Thank God he decided that London needed him more than we did and so delegated the job to one of his sidekicks. The person we had to answer to was a female called Zoe. Classy but pleasant, I bet this operation made a change from her usual. With a face like hers she probably spent most of her time honeytrapping in high end clubs. Her orders consisted of one very straightforward instruction: bug everything in the house. We need a junior officer from Section D to tell us how to do that! Someone should have mentioned our expertise in sucking eggs.

The first stage of this fairly standard procedure meant obtaining access to the premises, which in turn meant pretending to be an emergency service. We have a variety of surveillance vans for just this eventuality, all with the principal design brief of being accurate enough to fool the dozy public. Apart from the ubiquitous white van, that one no one dares to approach in case they encounter a hungry Rottweiler licking its lips in the back, we have quasi telephone, electricity, water, gas and ambulance vehicles, even a mobile library. Heaven help us if we ever encounter a real problem when pretending to be one of those services. You can't treat someone having a heart attack with a recording bug, although courtesy of some old biddy one of my colleagues forced to become an instant expert on all things Mills and Boon while in the front cab her fellow operative was listening into the local porn baron promising to give someone a very different form of knee trembler. Anyway as we'd already successfully hacked into Steve's phone line and discovered that he and the bint were due to be visiting his sister that night we all piled into the van, expect for Ringo outriding on his motor bike, and headed off to the love nest in the Wirral. On this occasion we were playing at being the gas board yet again, on the basis that being electrical engineers was a bad idea - the last thing we wanted was light shed on our activities - so unless we punctured a water main this was the only credible service that would be out and about at that time of night. The excuse being that failure to act immediately might result in the line of cottages going boom. As the greatest risk of that happening was down to the person who was about to spend the next hour or so declaiming her gospel of destruction someone was doing a nice line in irony.

So we skulked around the corner and as soon as the duo had headed off for their evening's fun we were round the village green and outside the cottages in seconds. The first thing to do was to soothe the neighbour, an elderly woman by all accounts, so little Zoe, dolled up in coveralls as the most unconvincing gas supervisor ever – super model would be more her line –toddles off to convince Granny that we're the real deal. While she's doing the spiel, with Ringo of the motor bike standing behind setting off a hiss of gas to add verisimilitude to her fiction we're all trying to organise ourselves and our equipment out the van and into the cottage.

Oh God, not an experience I want again. First I'm trying to struggle my way through the frigging front door when a long grey streak rushes past my legs, the sodding cat that I don't know existed had escaped. That might have been okay if the place had boasted a cat flap but no 'Tiddles' wasn't allowed to go a roaming and had clearly seized the chance for freedom with all four speedy paws. Mind it was so cramped in that cottage I couldn't blame the animal. Or maybe it had heard Mary droning on about death to those she didn't approve of and in consequence had decided that it wasn't prepared to risk being turned into a fur coat, or a Chinese meal. Whatever. At that piece of news Zoe was doing her nut. I rather gathered that this was the first time she'd been let out on her own and the furry fiend had done for the operation and her in one. Result: we spent valuable bugging time playing hunt the cat with the aid of cat food. I went along with it, although from the brief glimpse I'd caught of the ruddy fur ball as it streaked past me it had seemed quite well fed, and more interested in seeking adventure than hunting out grub. Still orders are orders so I composed a delicatessen meal for the four legged friend, consisting of tuna flakes marinaded in olive oil. Zoe didn't half give me a funny look when I described this tasty treat. She obviously didn't have me down as a cat man. Actually she was quite correct but in my youth I'd been the possessor of a very old maiden great aunt who lived with about six moggies. She never could keep track of them and was forever asking if anyone had seen her pussy. I always remember that, along my Mum shooting Dad the marital glare when he made a choking sound.

While we continued to play this version of hunt the pussy, not quite the format I indulge in on the odd nights I'm allowed off duty, Zoe was ringing someone – probably the dour Quinn for instructions. Not only had Tiddles rained on her parade but to cap the evening off nicely the heavens literally opened as well. The weather was probably what saved us, despite my specialist knowledge it was Paul's instinct that threaded the vital mental connections -cat – hate – water – hide – bushes - and extracted one very damp feline from its refuge under the green thickets beneath the kitchen window. By now it was a tossup who looked like the bigger disaster zone, Zoe dripping wet, or the equally bedraggled cat now snuggling in my arms as I exhibited my trophy. Anyway she was so thrilled she even asked if I'd marry her. Not sure about marriage but there were other aspects I might have been prepared to explore: not a good idea really. Anyone shafting Zoe has to pass Harry Pearce's vetting and I could just see him coming over all Victorian father on that one. For all I knew he might be doing the job himself – it wouldn't surprise me, even in Manchester we've heard the rumours and on the one occasion when he turned up in our office all the female operatives were swooning, along with our resident gay. Can't think why myself – I mean the man is bald and overweight. Anyway having ignored Zoe's kind offer we all retired indoors. Now we weren't acting as surrogates for the RSCPA we could get on with the job we're really paid for.

Having lost time we had to work quickly. Fortunately while we'd been trying to locate the cat, the pensioner next door had decamped to her sister's, which meant we could make a modicum of noise without blowing our cover. While Zoe set about blow drying Tiddles – being the only female we left her to it as the one who knew best how to handle a hairdryer -the furball loved the fuss, we stuck bugs everywhere, apart from up the cat which as a moveable object couldn't be relied upon to give accurate feedback, despite the James Bond films telling us otherwise. Fire alarm, carriage clock, up the chimney, light fitting screws in every room. By the time we'd worked our way through the premises if either of them whispered a fart it would be picked up. We finished just in time. Practically running out of the place as the car bearing the idiots arrived home, we drove out, doubling back to park up just around the around the corner where I settled down to tune into the noises of the night.

At first we heard nothing and Zoe was stressing over whether the money had been misspent. I tried to reassure her and had just finished informing her that the equipment when adjusted slightly would even pick up breathing when the sounds of silence were replaced by the unmistakable sounds of shagging. Always a possibility when you bug a bedroom, at least this time we didn't have the visuals, shame really, that can be quite educational. Now don't misunderstand, I take all operations I work on seriously, when you know that if you get it wrong some poor bugger will be blown to kingdom come - and with the attitudes of some of our ethnic friends I mean that literally - you can't afford to be casual about what you do, but equally it's nice to have a bit of harmless fun on our job, while listening into other blokes on theirs.

Zoe's initial reaction to all the heavy breathing seemed to be disgust making me wonder if I'd been trapped for the night with the MI5 tribute act to Mary Whitehouse. When she did speak it was with the acid comment, '_So much for a righteous woman'_ from which I concluded that she wasn't impressed by Mary's hypocrisy. I have got to say, metaphorically speaking, while Mary was presumably fondling Steve's point I saw Zoe's. I mean Mary's claims to be a devout God botherer and is then allowing herself to be shafted on a regular basis by Steve, with her old man about to be sent into eternity. As they settled down to make a night of it I was wishing I had a bloke in with me. Don't get me wrong Zoe's a looker, very easy on the eye, and seems good at her job, but she is a female and I like to think I have some sense of refinement so I couldn't do what we normally do if it's all men together. Then we get out a stop watch and time the guy, in general we techies have our own private tally, how long they last, the number of times they get it up in a evening, and the total number of 'Oh God's' screamed out. Not that we'd have had much to bet on that night anyways. Let's just say that Steve wasn't a stellar performer – there again I don't know how they filled in the earlier part of the day. Mary's fanaticism might just have extended to demanding a regular service in the generic area of big bangs, and like I said the Wirral is short of entertainment, but judging by her comment next morning on useless Brits I doubt it. I didn't get the impression, having listened in, that she was just referring to Steve's bombing prowess. It would seem that Steve didn't satisfactorily keep his end up for Mary or for England. Some things don't make you proud to be British.

That wasn't quite the end of the operation for me but….Ah the clicking noise. This tape is nearing its end so all I need to do now is check the playback and then wipe it.

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_**Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be gratefully received. This will be the last chapter for a few days as I'll be away with variable Internet access.**_


	14. Chapter 14: Harry's Operational Notes 7

**_Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. After the excitements of the night we return to the Grid_**

* * *

**May 4 2002 9.00am**: Early reports from the bugging operation have yielded nothing of significance beyond the information that Mary Kane is apparently planning to leave the Wirral to work with a group in Dundee. Surveillance teams are on red alert to follow Mary and her contacts.

Danny Hunter having analysed the transcribed conversations has expressed the opinion that Mary is aware that we may be tracking her, hence the lack of specifics. The generalised breakfast table exchange of views has however confirmed that another strike is planned and that her already identified co-conspirators are aware of these future schemes.

The dustbin check on discarded debris has uncovered the remains of a positive pregnancy test. No comment.

* * *

_So morning has broken offering little to move us forward, combined with the discovery that our principal lead about to head off to pastures new. Clearly she thinks she's squeezed all she can out of our Steven Barfield, both in respect of his cranberry juice and more intimate fluids. Still why Dundee? The Scots already have the fabled Nessie lurking within their borders so I don't think they exactly stand in crying need another resident monster, especially since Ms Kane wouldn't exactly cut it as a tourist attraction. _

_Just to add to the joys of the dawn Christine Dale popped in for a chat with Tessa. I'm certain her only motive was a very genuine attempt to liaise with Tessa on a joint operation that I reluctantly approved a couple of weeks ago - a partnership that I'm equally certain just happens to be linked in with a black operation neither would own up to – the shafting of yours truly. _

_I celebrated these heart warming events by taking Tom up to the roof for a spot of fresh air where, away from the risk of being either overheard or bugged, I broke the news to him about the forthcoming extradition request. I can't be seen to oppose it, although that constraint won't stop me trying. At the risk of sounding immodest when it comes to being under handed I could run a master class, assuming I was either stupid enough, or vain enough to reveal my methods. Unlike some I've absorbed the spying manual from cover to cover, particularly the section on the various ways of remaining covert. At least my motives are pure, Regnum Defende and all that, even if my methods aren't. In the context of today I knew how Tom would react – furious – but having trained him I also know he'll be instantly scheming to circumvent the Cousins and their urgent demands. For a country that never possessed an empire our Transatlantic allies certainly have Imperial demands. _

_Tom's mood was not improved by my suggesting that he chatted up Christine Dale in an effort to get, if not an ultimate stay of execution, at least a stay of extradition. Not something I'd have hinted him towards if he wasn't safely enmeshed in the arms of Ellie Simm. Inter agency liaisons and the complications thereof I can do without, but it's obvious Ms Dale fancies him, so why not use that for our advantage? As long as she's the one to get her fingers burned and not Tom. _

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**9.30am** Confirmation that the Home Office has agreed to fast track Mary Kane's extradition. Timetable immediate. She is to be arrested and detained by Special Branch prior to a formal and speedy handover.

* * *

_Thank goodness I'd prewarned Tom. He was already in circumvent mode. As he said, it's not over until she's on the bloody plane. At present Mary is being tracked by Zoe and various personnel from the Liverpool office, no plods involved so the subtext, that I won't know about, is that we grab her and then go dark. _

_I was army, Nelson was navy, but the Senior Service's most famous pinup boy was also the greatest exponent of what those of us in a position of authority refer to, in modern parlance, as a transferable skill, namely the art of turning a blind eye. _

_England Excepts That Every Man Will Do His Duty - and stuff the Americans. _

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**_Thanks for reading - if you have a moment a review would be appreciated._**


	15. Chapter 15: The Parishioner

**Thanks to those who read and I did appreciate the reviews. **

**This is my explanation as to why Mary was able to evade Section D. **

* * *

Hello Daphne.

Yes it's me Margaret. I'm just ringing to let you know that I've arranged the flowers and put the fresh linen in the sacristy. You know how upset Father Simon gets if he doesn't have clean purificators. I know, I wish he'd spill less wine as well, and be a little less careless with the candles. Last week it took me ages with the brown paper and an iron to get the wax out of the altar cloth.

No you don't need to pop in to check. The flowers should last until Sunday. I made sure I put plenty of water into the oasis. Sylvia was away on a bus trip to Anglesey, that's why I did them today. I'm a bit pushed this week and don't have time to put up with her changing her mind every minute, and then just as you finish she starts on her 'would it be better if we…" routine.

Exactly but when you're her age I suppose….although as it happens I did have an interruption…

Who was it? Well that was the queer thing about it. Did you meet that woman who's been popping into mass for the last two weeks or so? Said she was visiting in the area. Brown hair, long brown coat, ghastly pink cardie….

That's her, gave her name as Denise Marsden, American but even so seemed very nice, very interested. So interested that father was showing her round the entire church, I think he was hoping that if she stayed longer she might help out occasionally. Like I said I was in the sacristy, just finishing as it happens – by the way we must try to repair that Christmas altar frontal, the overlaid embroideries are beginning to come away, it only need a stitch or two and then….

Sorry...as I was saying, I'd just put everything away and was shrugging into my coat when I heard someone entering the church, not unusual I know, I thought it someone was wanting to pray...possibly Mrs O'Docherty...I gather that Kathleen's cancer is getting worse …

Okay yes... so I thought I'd stay out of sight and not disturb whoever it was in case they wanted silence and privacy, you know what father says about prayer, about needing to concentrate and when someone else is around it's never quite the same.

Whoever it was walks to the front and suddenly then the sacristy door opens and it's this Denise. I jumped in surprise and she gave a gasp when she saw me but, well she looked a bit worried and then whispered 'He's after me".

That's what I asked, "Who?" and then she says "A man he's been stalking me for the last two days – and he followed me to the church so I came in here for safety, only he'll be waiting when I go out." Really agitated she was. Well I didn't know what to make of it – I mean she was either making it up or it was the truth. I didn't want to let her go outside again in case it was true. While I'm wondering what to suggest she looks around and sees the other door from the sacristy, you know that small one that opens into the outside lane and says "Can you let me leave from here." It seemed a good idea, after all if she was delusional it wouldn't matter which way she went out and if she was telling the truth then she'd be safe, so I did – let her disappear through the back way I mean…I don't mind admitting to you I was a bit shaken so, after she'd gone and I locked the door behind her, I went into the church and knelt down to pray – calm myself a bit while I wondered if I'd done the right thing.

Thanks, glad you agree I didn't have much choice. Well I finished praying, just a quick one, what Father would describe as an arrow prayer I suppose, and got up to leave. I thought I'd heard the door when I was on my knees but hadn't turned around, you know what Father says about being distracted and I wanted to finish.

Exactly but when I turned and walked up the church there at the back was a youngish man, he seemed respectable enough, I mean he was in a suit, but I don't know….he looked sort of uncomfortable in it as if he and it didn't quite fit together….and as I walked towards him he gave me a hard, agitated look, sort of searching as I passed by him. It was only then I realised I'm about the same height and colouring as Denise and my coat is very similar. I think he thought I was her. I wasn't sure what to do so I just walked straight past him giving him a casual glance. I was worried that he'd follow me because of my resemblance to Denise but he just stood there, looking a bit stunned I think.

Yes so it seems she was telling the truth – funny though he was so much younger that her.

You're right of course, you never can tell with weirdos. Even more peculiar just as after I passed him a much younger women rushing came in, very pretty and I heard her saying something to him, I couldn't quite make it out, and to be honest I wanted to get away while he was distracted. But she sounded angry. She clearly knew him…

That's a thought, wife or girlfriend getting wise to his little tricks. Shame and she was so attractive I'd have thought she could do better, despite the suit he looked a bit rough. I'd not want to meet him on a dark night that's for sure.

I agree...if Denise turns up on Sunday we need to tell her to contact the police. Being American she might not know we have laws against stalking and she seems such a pleasant person she might need the support to do so.

Not good is it a visitor being pursued by a pervert. I wonder if I should have reported it to the police anyway. If they could trace the man they could give him a warning or a….what do you call it …. That's the word, a caution. I'd hate to think any harm had come to her and I could have prevented it.

I know a bit late now. Anyway what did you have to tell me about Patrick's' latest girlfriend…

Oh dear…Frances must be ripping her hair out, maybe she should…

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_**Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be welcome.**_


	16. Chapter 16: Harry's Operational Notes 8

**Many thanks to those who read and much appreciation to those who reviewed. A short filler chapter of Harry's thoughts**

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**4 May 11.00am**: Danny Hunter's assessment was correct. Zoe Reynolds has just reported in, stating that Mary has given them the slip. Zoe and a Manchester based officer tracked her to a local RC Church, watched her enter and waited for a couple of minutes, a delay they judged necessary to avoid breaking their cover. As a consequence of this laudable caution by the time they finally managed to follow her discreetly the lady had performed the classic manoeuvre of vanishing via a back door while the surveillance team were watching the front.

This alters our plans but since the early morning monitoring indicated that Ms Kane's associates have some knowledge of her schemes a shift of focus is dictated. Our primary concern must be to prevent another explosion. Since it is also clear that the subject of interest intends to oversee personally whatever spectacular move she plans to mark her husband's demise we will now go after her associates with the objective of discovering the bombs and with them, if we get the right break, the prime mover in this terrorist outbreak.

Zoe Reynolds has outlined a plan to shock our identified weakest link in the trio into talking. I've approved this but have dispatched Tom Quinn and Danny Hunter to Liverpool to help her. If this plan fails then they have been authorised by me to apprehend Steve Barfield and (et name) and persuade them to talk. Means by which this is to achieved are unspecified. I've also insisted on the support of Manchester's lead techie John Whitehead who did an efficient job at the cottage.

_Not the best of news and I'm a little dubious about Zoe's plan, not with her aim of shocking the weakest link, that's what we all attempt, it's her intention to use a child as her cover that I find worrying. Despite my reputation as a rubbish parent I would have been reluctant to allow either Catherine or Graham to be used in any MI5 operation, let alone one that was tracking down killers. If it goes belly up the publicity doesn't bear thinking about. However I've spoken to Keith Burns from Special Branch and he assures me that he'll be in sight at all times, and that he and Zoe have agreed a signal if the scheme seems likely to implode. So far so planned – my own thoughts? Quite apart from the safety concerns re involving a junior civilian I'm keeping everything crossed that no paranoid mother rings the police to report that a solitary elderly male is hanging around a children's play area. I can just hear the dialogue now 'But I'm Special Branch' 'All the perverts say that'. However I've not got a better suggestion since the only alternative would be to apprehend Barfield and Goldsmith which would definitely alert Mary if she should hear of it, and we have to assume that she will. She may have departed Barfield's bed but that type of individual, once they have their hooks into you, never let go. They are a sort of hybrid fisherman cum puppeteer, a cockatrice in human form. We didn't tell Zoe or, by implication, Keith Burns, about the extraditions demands. The fewer people who know about those the better. Time enough for Zoe to learn this from Tom after they've tackled Rachel Goldsmith, while what __Keith Burns doesn't know he can't inadvertently let slip._

_In the meantime I'm stuck supervising this temple to paperwork. Although Tessa is working with an unaccustomed alacrity on the documentation rushed over from the Home Office, (she's aiming to stuff us in revenge for Tom's comments while I'm slowing her down by finding more urgent tasks for her to expedite) I find myself obliged to perform the India rubber contortion feat of pretending that I know where the bitch is, while doing everything in my power to delay the extradition. Thank goodness this is an intellectual exercise and not a physical one – I'd be tangled up in a cat's cradle with my legs behind my ears never to become unknotted – which reminds me – I must try to keep current developments out of Tessa's earshot, which, among other issues, means instructing Helen to keep her mouth shut. I have no intention of allowing Ms Kane to be shipped off to the Cousins until we've had the first dibs into her twisted mind._

_At least, if pushed, I can truthfully refuse to remove her from the UK on the grounds that I don't actually know where she is, although I'm hoping we can trace her before I have to admit we've lost her. If forced to cough up to the latter I'd prefer it to be at a time of my choosing and possible advantage, if advantage one can wring from a through going cock up._

_For now, in a phrase, that would probably thrill whatever cockles reside in Ms Kane's murderous little heart 'Mum's the word'_.

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_**Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be gratefully received**_


	17. Chapter 17: The Child

**Sorry for the delay and many thanks to those who read and all the lovely reviews. **

**The writing style in this is a tad repetitive for reasons that are obvious. **

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_Class Task Year 4 - Write about a special day. Use a word list or a spell checker. _

My Special Day by Jimmy Burns

My special day was last week. My childminder collected me from school as usual. We were going to buy some sweets when my Daddy met us. My minder was surprised but I heard Daddy tell her that as he'd finished early today he thought he'd take me to play in the park before we went home. Then Daddy and me got into a car. Daddy said it was a police car but it didn't look like one. I wanted him to put on the blue light and make the nah nah noise but Daddy said it was an unmarked police car and they need to be quiet. That's so the criminals don't get a warning that he's about to catch them. As a treat he let me sit in the front. I pretended to be a policeman as we drove through the city to a carpark in a strange place. We stopped and got out. No one was there except for a lady standing beside another car that was big and black. Daddy waved to her and then told me that he needed me to be a big boy and help him. He wanted me to continue pretending to be a policeman if I did it well he'd buy me some Star Wars Lego. I asked if he'd get me an even bigger set than Kieran's and he said yes. Then the lady came over to us and asked Daddy if he was okay with the plan. Daddy just nodded and then said to me that the lady was going to play the game of pretend with me. The rule was that I had to go with her and make believe that she was my Mummy. He'd be walking around watching to make sure I did it good and I had to pretend I didn't know him. I had to do what the lady told me. I said was it okay to lie because Mummy tells me off when she catches me doing it and Daddy said just this once. The lady said thanks to Daddy and then gave me a sweet.

When she held out her hand I took it and we walked together down a lane to the playground that was in the middle of lots of trees. That was easy. She was prettier than Mummy no lines around her eyes and she smelt nice as well. She was not dead old like Mummy or Daddy. When we got to the playground the lady told me to go and play so I did. While she went and sat with another lady. The playground was full of swinging ropes and wobbly bridges and wood chips that got into my shoes. I was wondering what to play on the bridges or the climbing things when a boy who was already playing there bumped into me and we both fell over. When we both got up he asked me if I was with my Mummy. I said yes and then he pointed to the other lady who was talking to my pretend Mummy and said she was his Mummy. He was called Luke and I told him my name. Then we played at being pirates, he was the pirate king and I was a brave prince, for a long time while they talked. Daddy says women always talk forever about nothing. I saw Daddy walk past us but remembered what he'd said so I didn't say hello to him. We seemed to have been in the playground for a long time and I was getting bored with playing pirates when the two mummies got up and called to us. We all walked up a path when my lady's phone went off and she answered it. I didn't understand all the words but suddenly me and Luke were being pulled up the path and squashed into a strange car and Luke's Mummy drove very fast to the hospital. Then we all got out and went into the building. I didn't want to go in as the hospital smelt funny and the last time I went there a doctor stuck needles into me. Then I thought about the Lego and went with them. The mummies seemed to know were we were going. We passed lots of signs with funny names on them all ending with ology until we suddenly stopped at a swinging door. My lady, Luke and his Mummy went in. I was going to go with them but then Daddy turned up. He took my hand and said I'd been a good boy but could I sit and wait for a few minutes and here was some chocolate. So I went into a room which had nothing in it except some chairs lots of dull posters and a table with a magazine called Hello that was full of smiling people in big houses. I was there for ages when Daddy came for me said it was time we went home. I asked if I could say bye to Luke but Daddy said he and his Mummy had already left. I saw my lady talking to a very tall man I hadn't seen before. She looked angry but when I waved to her she smiled and said Good boy Jimmy.

Before we went home I asked Daddy about my Lego so we went to the toyshop first. I asked Daddy on the way if I'd been okay, Daddy said I'd been very good and helped the police a lot. When we got home Mummy wanted to know where the Hell we had been and why my school uniform was so dirty. I showed Mummy what we'd bought and told her what I'd done and that it had been dead exciting. She got cross with Daddy and shouted a lot more using some very naughty words. I tried to help Daddy. I pulled on her sleeve and told her it was okay and I wanted to be like Daddy when I grew up, and then she got even crosser. Then Daddy said something about a little girl called Sarah and Mummy went quiet. Then she began to cry. Her face went all red and wet, she didn't look very pretty but Daddy just his arms round her and said something in her ear. Then she sniffed and said don't do it again. She's always saying that to me as well.

That was my special day. I helped Daddy and got my Lego as a reward. Kieran was dead jealous the next day when I told him what I'd got. Daddy said I wasn't to tell anyone about what we did but I'm writing it so that doesn't count.

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_Teacher's note to Headmistress: Should we notify Social Services about this, Jimmy could be at risk?_

_Headteacher: Mr Burns is an officer with Special Branch and had a word with me the next day in case Jimmy did mention this at school. He wasn't able to give me details but I understand that Mr Burns was present or in touch with events throughout and Jimmy played an important part in helping to apprehend some very dangerous people who have since been arrested. _

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**_Thanks for reading. If you have a moment a review would be appreciated._**


	18. Chapter 18: Harry's Operational Notes 9

_**Thanks once again to those who read and those who reviewed.** _

* * *

**May 4 15.30**: Tom has reported that the sting on Rachel Goldsmith was partly successful. Although subjected to a considerable degree of emotional pressure she refused to reveal anything directly. However the fallback option of bugging of her mobile phone provided us with the name of the next target: Dr Diane Sullivan who works in a private practice based in St John's Wood. Surveillance agents have been dispatched to observe but instructed not make any approach unless they consider her to be at risk. At the end of her working day two other officers will visit her at home and organise her covert removal to a safe house. Further decisions await the return from Liverpool of the field officers, Quinn, Reynolds and Hunter.

The papers authorising Mary Kane's extradition have been returned unsigned on the grounds that they contravene the UK convention of not returning detainees to countries/states that retain the death sentence. Ms Kane was convicted of a capital crime in absentia so her fate is a given and therefore in line with accepted national policy the request should be rejected.

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_In the absence of any discussion, and despite the life threatening nature of our transatlantic guest's plans I've taken only basic, low key steps to ensure that Diane Sullivan is not reduced to cinders. It's my guess that since Saturday happens to coincide with Paul Kane's execution the designated victim is safe until the weekend, hence my decision to delay removing her to safety forthwith. It is entirely possible that we may need to create the illusion that Dr Sullivan is following her normal life's pattern, whatever that may be, and therefore I can't risk giving any instruction that might signal that we are aware Sullivan is carrying an invisible target on her back. From an operational POV we have to recognise that members of Mary Kane's network may also be observing Sullivan's movements, although I'm prepared to bet that my officers are better trained than Mary's gang of ignorant amateurs. While I'm reasonably certain that these assumptions are accurate I'm somewhat less confident that sending Helen to supervise Sullivan into safe custody after she returns home is a risk free chance. Unfortunately my choice of officer in this instance is a little limited, given that only a handful of my staff are aware of the basics of this operation, with the three most experienced still stuck in northlands. _

_I can only keep everything crossed that I didn't make the wrong call in selecting Helen. She clearly needs more practice in the field, as evidenced by her excitement when I assigned her this fairly routine task. Talk about overdrive, she jumped with alacrity, suggesting that she stuffed cushion under her coat as a disguise. I dissuaded her on the grounds that if not well secured it might drop to the ground, thus destroying the operation with one featherlight blow. I should have added that a pregnant woman usually has swollen ankles, water retention, enlarged breasts and the need to avail herself of the Ladies with a frequency not consist with effective cover. I haven't forgotten Jane's endless moans when she was pregnant with Catherine. When she discovered she was pregnant with Graham it's a miracle I avoided involuntary castration. _

_While we try to track down the delightful Ms Kane, I've managed to delay her return to the loving embrace of Uncle Sam on the unassailable grounds that the decision of the American courts to consign her to the electric chair is an event that doesn't dovetail with my understanding of our existing protocols. I will of course be obliged to sign eventually due to the elastic conscience, not to mention the brown tongues, of HM Government, who will happily deport her while simultaneously offering asylum to others who are every bit as dangerous. Tough luck Mary, you're a Catholic Christian – allegedly – and therefore lacking in essential multicultural credentials. Not of course that everyone fleeing and then claiming asylum is a closet terrorist. The 7/7 bombers were home grown, an indication that many a would be martyr for Allah is a native of these shores, but even so we do seem to be importing and sheltering a worrying number of manipulative hot heads. Reds under bed at the start of my career, mad mullahs in mosques as it approaches its horizon. _

_The need to retain Mary's presence within our borders in an attempt to unpick her plans and network wasn't the only reason behind my refusal to sign. I know this sounds strange from someone whose field officer past has involved more face to face shootings than I care to remember, and who still, via kill orders, delivers death by proxy, but I really find the idea of capital punishment stomach churning. Killing to save myself or a colleague: yes. Killing as part of an ongoing operation to save nameless others: yes. I'll live with the nightmares that ensue and consider it a price worth paying, but the idea of escorting someone to a death chamber, calmly strapping them to a chair or a gurney and then either pulling a switch or injecting them with a lethal drug as the culmination of a pre-planned ceremony makes me shudder. Even worse, and almost unbelievable for a nation that considers itself civilised, in America they invite spectators! _

_Anyway Tessa's face when I returned the papers and told her to rethink was a picture. She really gets annoyed by me. I know why of course, when we were both junior officers and I was still married to Jane, just – we were forced to attend a conference together. After a few drinks she decided to proposition me and asked if there was any good reason why I couldn't come to her room that night. She's never forgiven me for replying that I could think of several. Frankly I make no claims to marital virtue - although if I'd slept with the legions of women who figured in Jane's accusations I'd never have had time, or the strength, to do up my trouser zip, let alone stagger into work - but after Juliet I'd learnt my lesson about shagging colleagues I then have to work with on a daily basis. Thankfully Juliet managed to oil her way into a post in America shortly after our liaison, had she stayed I'm sure my life would have been made Hell. Even before I dumped her, the result of knowing that Catherine was on the way, she'd rather blamed me for the subsequent disciplinary, although as my boss she should have known better than to energetically bonk a junior – orders were orders after all - even if I did enjoy obeying them at the time. The only positive outcome from the whole sordid experience was that I imbibed a principle I've stuck to rigidly ever since my promotion to Section Head. Namely if you are the team leader you should never ever take the risk of becoming romantically or sexually involved with a subordinate, of either gender. If the relationship blossoms the rest of your staff feel they are shut off from being able to argue or dispute with either of you, leading to operational problems. If the relationship goes down the tubes the whole atmosphere stinks, leading to operational problems. _

_Consequently these days I prefer to adopt the boss cum uncle cum father persona. Very privately I'll admit to myself that if I was going to have a crack at any female on my staff, and I'm not about to break my self imposed rule, it would be Zoe I'd approach, not Tessa. All other considerations aside Tessa is not, and never would be my type. The only person whose survival Tessa is interested in is Tessa's. I didn't make my mistakes with the spider that was Juliet, trapping and wrapping everyone hand and foot, simply to indulge myself in déjà vu with a praying mantis._

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**_Sorry but I couldn't resist a homage to PF's appearance on Top Gear. Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be very acceptable._**


	19. Chapter 19: The Wife

**_Thanks to those who read and even greater thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. _**

**_I did consider calling this one The road to Hell is...' but decided that the intentions were dubious from the go get. _**

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_Why ever did I listen?_

When Rob and Steven persuaded me that joining an anti abortion group would mean we'd meet like minded people I was nervous about going public over a private belief.

_Why did I listen?_

When they said that our Catholic faith carried with it a responsibility to stand up and be counted.

_Why did I listen?_

When they said that our concerns were being ignored, trampled upon by the liberal/humanist ascendency.

_Why did I listen?_

When they said that we needed to take positive action to make our voice heard.

_Why did I listen?_

When they said that a few anonymous threats to some medical personnel would give our cause the publicity it merited.

_Why did I listen?_

When the letters didn't work and Steven began to chat to militants on the Internet.

_Why did I listen_?

**And then**

When that woman Mary Kane made contact with him saying she could help us.

_Why did he listen?_

When she began to persuade Steven and Rob that aggressive action was the way forward.

_Why did they listen?_

**And now**

When I tell Rob that the Security Service knows everything about us.

_Why won't he listen?_

When I repeat that they know about Sullivan.

_Why won't he listen?_

When I disagree with his insistence that they will never catch us, that they are bluffing and that they can't prove anything.

_Why won't he listen?_

When I say that our lives have been destroyed by my listening to him and Steven.

_Why won't he listen?_

When I say we are all just days away from disaster.

_Why won't he listen?_

**And so**

I listened to my husband and brother.

They listened to Mary.

My husband and brother refuse to listen to me.

**And now**

Somewhere, some faceless someone is listening to us all.

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**_Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be appreciated_**


	20. Chapter 20: Harry's Operational Notes 10

_**As ever many thanks to those who read and the efforts of those who reviewed are much appreciated**_.

**_This is my attempt to explain the contradiction in Harry's martial status between S1 and S3. The parts in 1.6 when Jed referred to Harry having a wife and child were never broadcast, so I'm ignoring them. _**

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**May 4: 22.00pm**: We still unclear as to Mary's exact plans re Sullivan. Various options have been examined with the returning team members following the Liverpool based observations. None of which have considered operationally acceptable.

a) We increase the current low key surveillance of Sullivan's flat and workplace hoping to intercept Mary Kane. Objection: She has already evaded us once and would almost certainly detect any heavier MI5 presence with the result that she moves on leaving us the problem of seeking a new lead with no clues as to who/what they might be.

b) Despite moving Sullivan to a safe house – confirmed by Helen Flynn who is acting as liaison between Sullivan and the Grid - we somehow persuade Sullivan to act as bait to draw Mary out. Objection: even if she agreed we can't guarantee her safety and she is a civilian.

c) We pull in the Goldsmiths and Barfield for further interrogation. Objection: Mary will almost certainly have contacts who would alert her to this resulting the scenario outlined in option a.

Zoe suggested an alternative to c) which was to approach Rachel Goldsmith again now she has had time to consider the implications of what she is involved in. Objection: that would be extremely difficult since ongoing monitoring of the family comms suggests that she is being escorted everywhere by either her husband or brother who have also id'd her as their weak link.

Further to the above, discussions between Tom Quinn and the CIA Liaison suggest that if we do not expedite the handover of Mary Kane our failure to do so will be escalated to diplomatic incident level.

The meeting was suspended at 21.30 hours as my officers were exhausted. My risk assessment was that Mary Kane was unlikely to make her move tonight, allowing us time to sleep on any decision. Malcolm Wynn Jones has reorganised Sullivan's computerised calendar to suggest that she has been called to an emergency meeting that necessitated her overnight absence from home this evening and workplace tomorrow. That gives us a twenty four hour window to decide upon our actions. In the event of us needing longer, a time period defined by the last few hours of Paul Kane's life, in order to avoid arousing suspicion we will either arrange for an officer to spend tomorrow night at Sullivan's flat to produce the illusion that it is inhabited, or Malcolm in the guise of a workman will set up some light and curtain commands that can be controlled remotely.

* * *

_So overall two steps forward and one back as we still fumble in the dark with disparate views on how we proceed from here, assuming we can progress at all when faced with various blank walls. The team are working hard although Zoe quietly implied to me that she'd have preferred Tom not to go in so hard on Rachel Goldsmith. She didn't want to say it to him, given that he is a superior officer, but her unofficial assessment was that Rachel is a fairly decent but needy woman, caught up in all this almost by default and who may have cracked more readily had she been given thinking time to absorb the condition young Sarah had been reduced too. Zoe could be right, I suspect that a child being involved has affected Tom more than I would have anticipated, unlike Zoe though I can understand why he was so affected, I remember how terrified I was when Catherine was caught up in Iran._

_I've decided not to say anything to Tom since I wouldn't be surprised to discover that he is having difficulties with the Ellie Simm situation. Tell me a dedicated spook who doesn't have problems keeping their private life safe and on an even keel ,and I'll show you an ace liar – a problem that encapsulates the eternal domestic dilemma of the spy since in our job being a convincing con man is a career requirement that tends to spill over into all aspects of one's existence. That probably accounted for his foul temper when he returned from his meeting with Ms Dale, further exacerbated by Tessa apparently asking him what his girlfriend wanted. Malcolm overheard and mentioned the exchange to me later, adding that Tessa had a smirk on her face when she said it. Always ominous – she's up to something – and she, God help us, is on our side!_

_Anyway at this juncture Tom has my sympathy, I knew the other day he was worried about the vetting and his future with Ellie Simm: only stress would have made him refer to my marriage, a verboten topic in Thames House. Of the current Grid personnel only Tom, Malcolm and, unfortunately, Tessa, know that I wasn't always single. Being a typical spy I prefer secrecy –not because the thought of gossip bothers me, that I could deal with via various methods I prefer not to mention out loud. My main concern is the prospect that my enemies - the creation of whom is one of the my less pleasant career rewards - would use any information leak vis a vis my children as leverage. For that matter, much as I resent Jane's attitude, I wouldn't want her harmed either, the children need one parent to turn too and as my daughter and son refuse to speak to me I'm forced to protect their mother as well, although I wouldn't be too upset if Robin ended up as collateral damage (could I organise it?). Malcolm is a friend and will keep his mouth shut, Tom I was forced to confide in when I commissioned him to drag an utterly uncooperative Catherine out of danger, and since our very secret debrief, after he kidnapped her back to England, he's not mentioned it again. Tessa I can't trust, but since the divorce plus my other private personal details, including data on the offspring, reside in an encrypted file, secreted behind a Malcolm special firewall that no one could out geek - access DG only - I doubt that anything she could say would be a revelation to our alleged superiors. Today though I nearly gave myself away when someone described Sullivan's relationship status as thirty, divorced, no children. Considering the painful parting of the ways with Jane, plus the endless on going angst, a mild stab of envy led my to commenting incautiously 'lucky woman'. A stupid momentary slip that thankfully passed over unremarked. I must be more careful in the future, especially since I really don't regret having my children, or to be strictly accurate Jane having them for us. What I really regret is how we ended up, utterly estranged – unconditional love being, in my not so humble opinion, an unrewarding pain in the heart. _

_Tomorrow, is I suppose, another day. A weary statement of fact pointing up the differences between now and my earlier existence as a field officer. In those far off days I'd have been grateful just to survive the night, as Section Head I regard the rays of dawn as the harbinger of yet more gloom and hassle. Tomorrow morning's priority being to deal with the increasingly acute problem of keeping the CIA at bay. Their demands delivered via Christine Dale nearly saw Tom dissolve into a white fury, clearly neither had impressed the other with their respective charms. In fact had Tom had his gun on him he might have concluded the argument by using it, even with the knowledge that he'd have been only shooting the messenger. I can sympathise, but have to remember that infuriating as the message undoubtedly was, and even if, referencing my views on Tessa, I wonder exactly whose side the Americans are on, Ms Dale is as much in thrall to the wooden headed decisions of the headline seeking politicians as we all are. _

_When I see what our Cousins actually elect to office the increasing Americanisation of our own politics makes me shudder. Thank God I serve Queen and Country, not President and State, although I might just change my tune if I'm still in post when Charlie boy inherits. Yea Gods he talks to plants and wanted to reincarnated as a tampax. On second thoughts the average plant is more decorative and useful than the average politician so perhaps he is showing more sense than his endless pseudo intellectual witterings suggest. Not so sure about the second suggestion though, much as I enjoy being inside a woman - ahh memories - I think for those purposes I'd rather employ something that's larger and actually attached to my body. No, my preference for reincarnation would be to return as a wasp. I might quite enjoy the opportunity to buzz around irritating everyone I loathed, sting them, and then fly away without having to worry about the consequences. _

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**_Thanks for reading and a review would be appreciated if you have the time._**


	21. Chapter 21: The CIA Operative

**_Thanks to those who read and again grateful thanks to those who reviewed. _**

**_This chapter is ostensibly about Christine Dale although I suspect it might strike a chord with those readers subject to the demands of an unengaged management. _**

* * *

Christine Dale stormed into her apartment in a blind fury. When appointed to her current post she'd been delighted, regarding this as good promotion. Now, after days like today, of which she'd recently experienced several, she was seriously wondering whether she'd been appointed as an act of unadmitted revenge, and if so, who exactly she'd offended so bitterly that she'd ended up impaled on the bed of nails that was MI5 liaison –with particular reference to the machinations of Section D.

The slamming of her front door relieved her anger not one whit. Heading into the kitchen she switched on the coffee machine with a vicious jab. While she waited for it produce an acceptable drink she occupied her time fantasising about the email she would like to dispatch to Langley.

_Dear Sat on Your Butt doing Sweet FA Director Coaver_

_Thanks for landing me with this situation. As an old drinking buddy of Harry Pearce's you should be well aware that nothing gets out of Section D unless he's sanctioned the leak. This is no doubt a result of his engrained Cold War reticence. I doubt it's personal since he also gives his own official superiors the run around, still, the man is, in my opinion, a total nightmare to deal with. Consequently any attempt to find out what is happening about Mary Kane is akin to trying to plait smoke. In an effort to discover what is going on I visited the section, ostensibly to talk to Tessa Phillips about another case, knowing that the poisonous bitch really thinks she should have Harry's job and would be delighted to drop him in the shit. Unfortunately all the other staff in the know were lurking around, so nothing doing. Not even Tessa dared break ranks when half the beady eyes in Section D were fixed upon us._

_As the original information about Mary Kane had come from the Home Office via Special Branch I tried my pumping contacts with the latter, again nothing doing! Section D has taken over the case and no one fancies getting on the wrong side of H Pearce, re-knowned for doing his own very very dirty work when crossed. With his obstructionist attitude it amazes me he was ever promoted. I swear - frequently where he is concerned - that he glories in his reputation of being a tricky bastard. I'm even more astonished by what he gets away with. Honestly you have to around that nut house to believe it. If it's male it's terrified of him, and if wears a skirt it fancies him. Don't see it myself, he might have been love's young dream once upon a time for someone, but now he's over forty and arrogant with it. He's also bald, overweight and possessed of even less charm than a snorting bull on the rampage. _

_While I'm on the subject of the Section D males thanks ever so much for ruining any chance I had of getting on better terms with Tom Quinn. Yes, you don't need to tell me. I know inter agency liaisons are not a good idea but he's gorgeous, intelligent and knows what I do, so for once I don't have to hide behind a legend. I can't help my hormones jiggling around whenever he's in view. News flash Jim boy it's the twenty first century and women are allowed to admit to proactive desires in the bedroom stakes. The fact is I fancy Tom Quinn like mad and having to push a line guaranteed to annoy him isn't helping me to establish any form of Transatlantic partnership._

_Don't worry I've not gone rogue. Having tried everything else I called up the aforementioned Quinn, for purely professional reasons I assure you, and took him for short walkies outside Thames House. By the time I'd informed him that he'd have to give in and agree to what Langley are insisting upon I think he'd have liked to have shoved me into the eponymous river. I even implied that if they don't agree they'll have a diplomatic incident on their hands. Whatever the reason no one is talking, except toxic Tessa, who'd contacted me with the information that Harry has refused to sign the extradition papers on the grounds that Florida still enforces the death penalty._

_Considering the number of people he's probably killed himself I find this surprising, but then I know he's not a great fan of America. Frankly I have to add that while I know the arrival of Mary back home to coincide with her husband's trip to the electric chair would be a publicity coup, having seen what that pair perpetrated in America I don't blame the Brits for wanting to hang onto her and squeeze out the Intel – would we roll over the other way around? You do realise that if they end with a bombing campaign on the UK mainland we'll have even more problems working with them, as they are bound to accuse us of hobbling their investigations. And they'd probably be right, although I would never admit to those misgivings in public._

_Anyway I think I've done the best I can and in reality the buck stops not with Tom but with your old whisky swilling buddy. Can I therefore, somewhat less than politely, suggest that your get your finger out, contact the Foreign Office and make them to insist that he signs the papers, instead of leaving it to me to argue a losing toss re the decisions of that Saville Row suited, public school educated, ex army dictator. _

_Not so Kind Regards_

_Ms Dogsbody_

Sighing she rejected this as utterly inappropriate. She was after all employed by the CIA and needed to retain their goodwill, along with her pay check. Harry Pearce wasn't the only one who was capable of exacting a bitter revenge, and after today she'd do well to consign Tom Quinn into the area of desires best forgotten.

Carrying her now brewed coffee as she savoured its aroma she settled herself at her desk, pulled the key board towards her, clicked on the email and typed out her update to Langley.

_To Deputy Director James Coaver_

_From London CIA Liaison Officer Christine Dale_

_Dear Director Coaver_

_As requested I have been attempting to discover the situation relating to Mary Kane. As you are no doubt aware Mr Pearce places a great value on his officers maintaining professional secrecy and discretion at all times. All I have been able to ascertain is that although they are attempting to locate__ Mary Kane they have so far failed. I understand from a confidential source that they would prefer to delay the extradition until, assuming they do apprehend her, they have obtained further information from her relating to a suspected terror campaign. To that end Harry Pearce is refusing to sign the extradition papers. I have protested about this in person to the Section Chief Thomas Quinn but believe that matters might be expedited if someone more senior than myself pursued the case at a higher level._

_I await your further instructions and advice on how to proceed._

_Christine Dale_

She carefully re-read the document to ensure that her irritation and anger had not inadvertently leaked into the wordage. Satisfied as to its acceptability she clicked the Send button. Having now shovelled the decision making back towards her so called superiors she decided that she'd had enough of today, and headed off to bed. Alone.

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**Thanks for reading. If you have a moment please review. The next chapter and replies to any reviews may be a little delayed as I'm away for a few days. **


	22. Chapter 22: The Fly on the Wall

**_First of all thanks to all those who read the last chapter and again special thanks to those who took the trouble to review. Apologies for the delay in updating - cause: real life = time poverty. _**

**_I think this sci fic style chapter might the result of overdosing on Dr Who. On the other hand no sooner do we think something sounds impossible than advances prove us wrong. _ **

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**EYES ONLY**

**Memo**

**Code Name: Frankenstein**

Recently a whistle blower reported that a fellow employee in the Science Division of the Security Services Laboratory was undertaking unauthorised experiments: the intention of which was to implant certain aspects of human cognitive ability into non human life forms. The ultimate aim of this project was to develop a set of hybrid life forms whose enhanced skills could be utilised for the purposes of intelligence gathering. For the most part these experiments proved fatal to the animals involved. Nor has evidence has been provided to suggest that the project was successful. Had this irresponsible attempt at cross species genetic engineering succeeded in its aim the consequences to our national security, and to humanity in general, are unthinkable. The employee involved has been dealt with as appropriate, all details of the experiment wiped and as a safety precaution the surviving non human victims have been humanely destroyed.

* * *

Huh, so the memo claims but I escaped. You've heard of the 'fly on the wall'. That's me. The result of a hush hush scientific exercise, designed to utilise the flitting tendencies of a fly with some strange DNA cognitive experiment. Something to do with emotions being a form of energy creating electrical impulses that can, under certain conditions, be harnessed and interpreted. I don't understand how it works, or what exactly they did to me, but the end result is that I can read minds! Pretty amazing yes.

We, as in all those who received the treatment, were supposed to be destroyed in case we bred and ended up in the wrong hands - whatsoever they belong to. But like I said I can read minds and so I knew what was about to happen, which was more than my creator did. Debatably a lethal injection in the neck delivered via a foolishly trusted colleague is more humane than a fly swatter. Me I took advantage of my implanted ability and escaped into the ventilation system. Now I dodge my way around Thames House. Avoiding the cleaners who infest this establishment was not the mission I was bred for, but at least I've survived to retire, which is more than will be said of most of the people who operate out of this building. As the experiments have apparently extended my life span I've had plenty of time to explore. I can get into most places, and I do, but my preferred spot is inside the office of a balding overweight bloke called Harry Pearce. The bright red walls that enclose him may not be restful, but the several artefacts displayed on his office shelves provide a useful cover for someone my size and, since it is a private area where few dare to venture, there aren't many people to spot me when I feel the need to stretch my wings.

I quite like old Harry, which is very strange considering that he's a bit like a spider. He has a web of contacts you wouldn't believe and a tendency to wait and then suddenly pounce on the unwary. Incidentally the contrast between what these humans say and what they think is fascinating, and it becomes even more interesting when you are privy to the mental darts that take place during what purports to be a civilised exchange of views. I was lucky enough to be the unseen witness to a prime example of that the other day.

It all kicked off with the arrival of an obnoxious suit from the Foreign Office, one Toby McInnes. Resplendent in a Savile Row tailoring that rivalled Harry's. He, Toby not Harry, emerged from the pods and paraded himself across the Grid, oozing with the smug condescension that only a Whitehall mandarin can achieve. You could tell he thought he was a cut above everyone else when he entered Harry's office without knocking and then sat down without an invitation. He was closely followed by Tom Quinn, so badly upset he was in no condition to be coherent. Harry presented with a façade of calm, an appearance that was at complete variance with the flare of anger he experienced as the suit waltzed in, followed by a quick glance at Tom and a stab of concern cum curiosity at his agitated state. I of course knew why, although given the heartless way humans kill my kith and kin pardon me for not being very sympathic. My main feeling was to thank the God they keep swearing by that for once Tom's mental musings weren't fixated on Ellie Simm. Human beings don't half make a big deal out of sex, it must be something to do with having to strip off and endlessly fondle one another's bits, whereas with us it's a case just getting stuck in.

Anyway I don't often get an audience that allows me to showcase my abilities so I suppose you'll have to do.

Now if I'm presenting something I must be organised, something else I've learnt from watching Section D so to give a professional flavour in the report that follows – S = Suit, T = Tom and H = Harry

The opening gambit in the verbal chess match was begun by the suit, clearly under the impression that he was the King while Harry and Tom equated to the pawns, negligible and there to be pushed around.

(S) I presume you are aware of an oral contraceptive called Mendocrine.

_(I know your reputation Harry Pearce)_

(H) I'm a little out of touch with those

_(Ever since Berlin I've preferred to use condoms rather than rely on women to take precautions. Plus I'd rather avoid a visit to the clap clinic)_

(S) Alpha Pharmaceuticals base near Cambridge they've developed it here but are now looking for a licence overseas specifically.

_(Let's spell it out for you)_

(T) America.

_(Where else would you seeking a licence from, The Vatican City?)_

(H) And should Mary Kane be delayed any further?

(_Come on I'm busy, so spell it out you patronising shit.) _

(S) We have it on good authority the licence will hit trouble in the Land of the Free

_(Yes it's blackmail but so what – we have to keep the Americans happy.)_

(T) You would wouldn't you even now with all that could happen.

_(Money before lives. You're actually saying that it is acceptable to have more seven year old girls killed._)

(S) The Foreign Secretary wants you to sit on your hands and that is exactly what you are going to do. Special Branch can take over from here.

(_Don't even think about arguing Harry Pearce. You're ex military and will obey orders.)_

(T) They'll have to find her first.

_(Harry, surely you're not roll over for this smarmy sod.) _

(S) This licence is worth three billion pounds a year to British industry and losing that would be catastrophic.

_(So a few plebs might die. MI5 can take the blame, that's what they're there for. The government will get the credit for bringing jobs to the country. And mosre importantly I'll get my gong)_

(T) You spirit her out of the country and more innocent people will die. That's what I call catastrophic.

_(I really don't believe what I'm hearing. I have to get out of here before I smash my fist into this smug establishment git's face)_

(H) (_Thank God Tom's stormed out. He wasn't helping. The best way to deal with this turd is to pretend to humour him.)_

I signed up here because I knew who the enemy was and I wanted to fight them. These days the enemy doesn't even have a flag to fly.

_(Especially when our Foreign Office is prepared to treat with them, in fact sometimes I'm not sure that the Foreign Office isn't our greatest enemy – I hate politicians)_

(S) At least you knew where they were I suppose.

_(Stick to what you know about, which is not business)_

(H) Gave them something to put over the coffin.

_(Yes and I ate them for breakfast)_

(S) So where is she?

_(Finally he's been forced to sign. Now to rub in that when I say jump, even you, Harry Pearce have to jump. We need to return her to the Yanks quickly so do as you're told and hand her over.) _

(H) No idea old boy. We've lost her.

_(You can take this Parker pen and use it to stick your instructions where the sun doesn't shine. Old boy) _

I told you. Good isn't he! You should have seen the suit's face fall when he realised he'd been played. Anyway, apologies for the up coming pun, but at that point I judged it time to fly, even I was becoming uncomfortable with the thoughts Harry was having. Let me put it this way, despite the air of Zen calm, once the suit departed Harry's musings made his office walls look positively pale.

The hanging question as I flitted out being: had Toby McInnes realised when he was coming the _'Great I Am'_ that Harry knows all about his penchant for baby faced rent boys? I suspect not.

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_**Thanks for reading. Given the bonkers format of this chapter I'm not sure I should ask for reviews, but if the fingers move you...**_


	23. Chapter 23: Harry's Operational Notes 11

**Many thanks to those reviewed the last bonkers chapter. In this we return to the normal life of Harry giving full rein to his sunny disposition. **

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**5 May 2002 2.30pm** Mary Kane's extradition papers were signed this morning, subject to my having obtained an assurance from a Foreign Office representative that special circumstances relating to the National Interest had allowed the Foreign Secretary to authorise an override of the usual protocols. Subsequently I was obliged to advise the Foreign Secretary's envoy that at present we are unable to locate Mary Kane's whereabouts.

Keith Burns informed us that Helen Lynott, age seven, died early this morning. Special Branch in association with the Manchester team are maintaining round the clock surveillance on the known associates of Ms Kane. To date they have been unable to isolate Rachel Goldsmith to obtain further Intel. Phone tap evidence has revealed that her brother and husband are now desperate to avoid detection. As they are both directly implicated in at least one murder plus a manslaughter Special Branch has advised that in their considered opinion any further approaches to Rachel Goldsmith could endanger her life.

The Call to Justice British website has been located and provided confirmation that Mary Kane's group have detailed intelligence on all their potential victims including Diane Sullivan. The naming of Sullivan remains our best lead. Consideration is being given to substituting a female officer for Sullivan in an attempt to trap Mary Kane. Risk assessments and intelligence relating to the areas their designated victim frequents are being prepared. Helen Flynn as liaison has been dispatched to Sullivan's safe house to obtain detailed information relating to the clothes she would wear, particular shops she would patronise etc with especial reference to her usual Saturday activities. As Saturday is the date scheduled for Paul Kane's execution my working theory is that Mary Kane intends to make a statement by attacking Sullivan on the same day.

* * *

_I have a dream. One day I will step onto the Grid and all will be merry and bright. There again one day the sun will rise in the west or, even more unlikely, I'll be moved to snog Jools Silviter. Given the present horrors my smile muscles are in serious danger of atrophying. Not that I'm the only one so afflicted. The team is of course used to death, it walks with us every working day. Even so they have all been badly shaken when an innocent child has become an inadvertent victim. Nearly as horrific is the printout of the information our bombers have acquired on Diane Sullivan. Presumably they have similar data relating to others on their hit list. Clearly they are well organised, and with that level of sophistication worryingly well resourced. _

_While I obtained a fleeting pleasure by making it plain to that smug git from the FO that he'd been played it was, at best, a pyrrhic victory which did nothing to help with the more immediate problems, the chief of which is to prevent Ms Kane and Co from emulating the IRA via a mainland bombing campaign, which, having viewed their handiwork in America, promises to be even more vicious than that perpetrated from the land of the leprechauns. As a fall back option I've instructed Malcolm to organise a financial trawl, starting with our known criminals in Liverpool, in the hope of obtaining further leads should our admittedly risky plan fail. That however will take time we haven't got. The clock might be ticking the countdown for Paul Kane's remaining minutes, literally I believe within the precincts of his jail, but equally mine is ticking before Mary Kane strikes. The chief difference: I don't have a specified hour for termination of the menace. Thanks to the admission squeezed out of me by Toby McInnes we also have the additional happy prospect of the CIA going all OK Corral as they initiate their own hunt for her. Judging by their usual behaviour, shoot first, ask questions later, they have major problems adjusting to the fact that in England it is not considered a human right to carry a gun, and even less of a right to actually use it. As they are our allies - so called - should they succeed before my team I foresee another messy coverup will be required - guess who'll be tasked with that. _

_As far as the operation is concerned our choices come down to, either release Sullivan from her safe house and send her on her way, following covertly – a risk that we are not prepared to take with a civilian, even assuming she was willing to be a sitting or walking duck - or swap her with a female officer, namely Zoe._

_Putting an officer in danger may be par for the usual course, but in this case our hand has been forced by the Foreign Secretary who has been got at by the Cousins. Also, from information I have acquired from another source, some financial interests that seem to be rather cosy with Downing Street have been whispering in his ear. Maybe it's a sign of age but I am becoming ever more resentful of this 'market forces are paramount' attitude and its knock-on effect on security issues. I signed up to defend the realm from the criminal activities of bombers and their cohorts. Now with increasing frequency I find myself defending it from the infernal machinations of the financial quarter. And my father and brother thought I was the one who chose the career that gave you dirty hands! _

_That, unfortunately, is the reality I have to deal with. I do however have my own red lines, one of which is that I will not put up with being patronised by Toby McInnes and his ilk. It gives you some notion of their level of intelligence that this type feel it is acceptable behaviour to sneer at security service personnel. A process during which they totally forget that one of our duties is to vet any individual who can be categorised as a political associate. Of course I can't release any scandalous, albeit not security threatening, gossip immediately. Too obvious and too likely to arose suspicions as to the provenance, but allow me a few months and in a spirit of seasonal generosity I'll make the editor of 'The Sun', or just possibly 'The Mail', an exclusive Christmas present. A heart warming tale entitled 'The Coming of Toby McInnes' wherein are detailed the symbolic gifts to the world as bestowed by the title character's tinsel wrapped penis upon three rent boys and a couple of blow up dolls of indeterminate gender. With luck it will prove a bestseller – I can't be the only person who would like a change from the eternal reruns of 'A Christmas Carol'._

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**_Thanks for reading. If you have a moment a review would be appreciated. _**


	24. Chapter 24: The Next Victim?

**Many_ thanks to those who read the last chapter and the reviews were gratefully received. _**

**_This chapter is based in part on the comment Harry made re Sullivan referenced earlier and Zoe's scripted comment that she didn't think much of Sullivan's weekends. Part of the writing in this is deliberately repetitive as this is a private diary and most of us use the repeat phrases especially when stressed._**

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Extract from the diary of Dr Diane Sullivan

**4 May 2002 Thursday:**

When I woke up this morning I assumed that today would be a routine Thursday. No reason why not, routine typifies my life. Some would call it boring. My ex-husband frequently did so, which is why he's now my ex. As I informed him, more than once, what is considered boring is simply a matter of opinion and anyway it's my life and I like that way. Not that I'm not adverse to the occasional surprise, it's just that I prefer to be organised, knowing what I'm going to do, when I'm going to do it and with whom. Ironically it now it appears as if this perfectly reasonable trait has put me into danger's way.

Overall the working day was ordinary enough. As usual I spent it in the clinic, reassuring patients, explaining that aborting one foetus – a much less emotive word than child or baby and technically, until week twenty four of gestation, that is the correct term – won't prevent them from having a family in later life, when it is more convenient. That latter statement of course is pure professional speak, privately I doubt that there is ever a convenient time to branch off into two years plus of nappy changing followed up by having to deal, a few short years later, with a near decade of teenage angst. However I don't think it's my place to disabuse paying clients of their 'ideal time' illusions. The afternoon was reserved for aftercare follow up with earlier clients, mainly prescribing contraception to avoid a repeat trip all the while trying mask my exasperation with the patient who'd just had her third termination in five years, assuring her that she'd been unlucky rather than careless – probably a palpable lie but again I'm a clinician, not judge and jury on how my clients chose to conduct themselves.

It transpires though that someone else has taken on that role with regard to my own existence. I'd ignored the anonymous letters, if doctors who carry out terminations paid heed to those cranks we'd be opening the doors to uninformed intimidation on every issue going. We all receive these foul communications, for which the words, '_water_', _'duck'_ and '_back_' were coined, so it was a surprise when, upon returning home, no sooner had I closed the door of the flat behind me than I was summoned back to it, courtesy of an insistent and continuous knock. Opening it cautiously, to be exact I opened it the length of the chain I keep on the door, aka the single woman's defence against pests. Peering through the small gap I saw a young and very unthreatening blonde woman standing there. My first thought was that she was a potential patient. Before I could suggest my clinic was a more appropriate venue from which to approach me she thrust an id card at me, almost literally under my nose. My immediate reaction was to inform her that I didn't appreciate sick jokes – I mean MI5? I'm a doctor not a terrorist.

But it wasn't a joke - was it. The blonde was pleasant, even sympathising with the shock, but adamant. My life was in danger and I needed to be moved, quickly and quietly. Normally I might have argued but the presence of the uninvited heavy, who loomed up and into the sitting room once I'd admitted her across the threshold, made me decide it would be more dignified to go quietly. The only struggle I put up being to insist on a ten minute delay, during which time I threw some clothes and toiletries into a bag. A very small bag at that. A large one, I was strictly informed, might arouse suspicions if we were seen leaving. Then it was down the fire exit stairs and straight into a big black car parked near the dustbins. Not only were the vehicle's interior blinds pulled down so I couldn't memorise the route, I was also obliged to wear a blindfold before being lead into what Veronica – which incidentally I'm sure is not her real name - described as a safe house.

So here I sit, mobile phone removed, no laptop or any means of communication with the outside world that I can hear bustling a few yards away, cocooned in what I will admit are comfortable surroundings - impersonal but comfortable – swept clean of all trace of whosoever was here last, for whatever reason. My only company this diary that I grabbed from my bedside drawer. I'm keeping it hidden as I suspect that if my hosts knew I'd brought it with me they'd confiscate it.

With nothing else to do, other than write, I can't help wondering who else has been held here and why. While outside….. what is happening…the agony of uncertainty ….the not knowing. Perhaps by tomorrow it will all be over and I can return to my normal life.

**May 5 2002 Friday.**

I hardly slept last night. I thought I would as I've never been prone to nerves. My not lamented ex continually complained about my prosaic attitude to life but when I lay down and tried to close my eyes I has haunted by thoughts of what might have been – or even what might be if these people aren't caught. If the Security Services fails to track them down them, those faceless menaces that kept me awake I can't stay here, or in hiding for the rest of my life – can I?

I should be at my clinic today, gainfully occupied, instead I'm stuck here brooding as I scribble. I can't work since no computer has been allowed and with all the hussle to leave my flat I forgot to pack a book. The only realistic alternative on offer is daytime TV which I can't bear to watch. I did switch on but the relentlessly cheery trivia, combined with synthetic American cop shows got on my nerves, while all the time at the back of my mind I keep wondering what is happening. Outside I know watchers will be sitting, guarding my safety with a care that is indistinguishable from imprisonment. I'm confined in what in effect is a comfy cell for doing a perfectly legal job!

The sole break in this desert of island of human contact was the arrival of Veronica in the early afternoon. All smiles accompanied by a barely concealed excitement that made me want to scream with frustration. After asking politely if I was okay and had everything I wanted. I felt like saying yes other than my peace of mind and freedom, but of course I didn't. I never waste my breath pointlessly. Pretend civilities over, she drilled down to the real brass tacks of her visit. She hadn't fooled me anyway with her earlier enquiry and expressions of concern for my safety. I recognised the style. I do likewise with my patients. It's a clinical, purely professional, façade of caring. Not entirely false in that you of course care about the outcomes, and the subject's welfare, but only with detachment before you move on to the next person or investigation.

Now I think about it, I mean really think, who does care about me: both parents dead, only child, a few professional acquaintances and one or two friends who have busy lives of their own. It might have had the advantage of allowing my self appointed guardians to remove me from circulation with minimal explanation – a plus for them, but the start of an incipient depression for me.

So Veronica began her grilling, despite not being authorised to tell me anything much I successfully forced her to come clean by refusing to co-operate. Eventually she caved in and admitted that there was a plan in the offing to swap me with a female officer of a similar build and age. Basically her colleague will ostensibly slot into my daily round and common task, and for that they require some further in-depth detail to fool the – what precisely do I call them - terrorists, crusaders, murderers! So I obliged, detailing the clothes I usually wear at weekends, the times I set out, the car route I take etc, etc etc. Anything to get out of here. It was like taking an exam on the subject of my daily life, something which, as I described it, is not exactly eventful. My ex just before he left castigated me as boring, as if there is anything wrong with liking to be structured! When it came to my mentioning that I tend to avoid shops and spend about an hour on Saturdays touring the market stalls I sensed a slight pause from Veronica, just an air of mild alarm, but she gave nothing specific away. Having answered her questions some answers to mine, such as when they anticipate this operation being concluded would have been nice, but nothing doing.

So here I sit my body protected for now, as I wait and wait and wait, with my mind continually returning to that thought, the one that has niggled at me since yesterday evening. If I was killed who would care, I mean really care that I was dead.

**6 May 2002 Saturday**

Slept a little better, I think auto sleep mode took over. Awoke to the realisation that today might be the day. Veronica has sent a message via one of the heavies outside that she will be joining me. I'd like think it's a friendly gesture but as she's always the same, irritatingly smiley, I suspect that real deal is that if everything goes badly wrong I may have to be moved. I'd like to know what happens if all goes well, which for me is every bit as problematic as if everything goes wrong. I mean do I just get taken home and that's it.

Do I really find out what happened?

Will I spend the rest of my career looking over my shoulder worrying that this group will reform and leave me as the No 1 target?

Who can I talk to about this – I was forced to sign the Official Secrets Act when they brought me here.

Will I need or be offered counselling or will this, like other traumatic experiences, eventually just fade away?

If I do return to the outside world what do I do with the future I've been granted?

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**_Thanks for reading if you have a moment do review._**


	25. Chapter 25 Harry's Operational Notes 12

_**Have finally managed an update. Thanks to my readers for their patience, even greater thanks to those who've reviewed. Still a few chapters to go but as the end of Episode 1.1 approaches so inevitably does the end of this story.**_

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**5 May 2002: 7.00am**

Capitalising on our best lead operation _'Marsden'_ has been launched. Objective: to draw Mary Kane out of hiding. Methodology: the substitution of Junior Case Officer Zoe Reynolds for Diane Sullivan. Based on the assumption that Ms Kane has never actually seen Sullivan the resemblance in terms of age, height and clothing should deceive. Having taken possession of Sullivan's car my officer will depart from potential victim's flat in the tomorrow morning and proceed to follow the usual timetable of Sullivan's weekends, terminating at the market patronised by Sullivan. Given Ms Kane's evident desire for publicity this is the location that would reap the most casualties making it an ideal site for a statement attack.

Analysis of Mary's preferred methods of activating her bombs, acquired from information on the Liverpool attack and historic data culled from other intelligence sources, suggests that she will use her phone to send the signal. An army bomb disposal team with Danny Hunter in attendance will be present with equipment capable of jamming the signal. In order to reduce the risk of civilian casualties arrangements have been made to ensure that only members of the foot surveillance teams will be allowed to populate the market. In addition the surrounding approach roads that do not feature on Sullivan's normal direct route into the area will be subject to selective closures. The actual route used will open quickly as our Sullivan look alike approaches, followed with discreet closure as soon as Officer Reynolds and the target are settled into the market precincts and out of the eyeline of the road.

Once apprehended Mary Kane will be removed to a safe house pending her extradition. An officer has been sent to sit with Sullivan in case we have to remove her to another location.

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_Actually the reason an officer has been sent to sit with Sullivan has less to do with securing her safety and rather more to do with securing my sanity. This is a delicate and dangerous operation and I can do without having Helen bouncing around like an excitable puppy as a result of her being included in a field capacity for the first time ever. I've got problems enough with Danny, another of the easily excitable ilk. In fact I did suggest to Tom that due to inexperience perhaps Danny wasn't the best choice to supervise the surveillance. Tom's answer was inarguable – Danny's training scores for this type of operation are phenomenal. So here's hoping that his capabilities include the seamless translation of paper exercises into real life efficiency. One aspect of this operation that I trust will remain a paper exercise is the organ donor card that Malcolm tactfully presented to Zoe along with forged copies of Sullivan's other documents. I admired his thoroughness while silently considering that Zoe was nervous enough without being obliged to process the suggestion should Mary's murderous efforts prove successful the operation might culminate in her own body being quarried for spare part surgery. _

_There again if this goes belly up I stand to be eviscerated as well. The cost of this operation is about as phenomenal as Danny's scores. Covering the surveillance of Zoe's route by motor bike was well within budget as was some tracking of Sullivan's early appointments, but when it came to the market! I had to request the secondment of large numbers of officers to dress the stalls and look as if they were customers as, unfortunately, we also needed to organise keeping the public safely out of the way without giving Mary a clue. That we were setting up what is in effect a very expensive fishing trip inevitably leaked upstairs. The DG's default reaction was to witter on about the cost and the need not to upset the Cousins, until I introduced him to Malcolm's map of the likely results of a major Semtex explosion, accompanied by the suggestion that if London ends up splattered with body parts his own balls might be on the chopping block. When all else fails appeal to self interest – as usual it worked a treat. Anyway I got permission to continue this rather public black op providing the DG is kept in the loop but away from the fallout. Typical, although I did remind Tom that we have been warned off. This was verbal shorthand for 'make sure we have a good excuse when asked to explain ourselves'._

_God I hate times like this when I can do little except sit with Malcolm listening into the operation while praying, in a strictly non-religious way, that I don't hear one of my officers being killed. Then I really curse the injury that drove me out of the field and imprisoned me behind a desk. I wasn't born to be a pen pusher or a yes man, not when being the latter forces me to wantonly send officers out to meet their deaths on the direct orders of those whose sole acquaintanceship with killing is delivered via computer games. _

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**9.00am**: The Section Head and Senior Technical Officer will be located in the small operations room listening into the comms as part of the on going risk assessments, with the option of altering the agreed protocols should the developing situation dictate the aborting of the original plans.

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_Now it begins, I can only hope it doesn't conclude in one big bang of the non-sexual variety. If it does we'll face weeks of publicity and trial by media during which various spokespeople promise change on our behalf. Once the events are relegated to memory, a process that usually takes a maximum of three weeks, everyone will revert to type. The politicians will worry about their image, the DG will review our existence down here, and the accounts department will complain about the cleaning and compensation bill. _ _Thus run everyone's priorities. And mine for today and always? That I can keep the unknowing public safe without sacrificing my officers in the process._

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**_Thanks for reading and if you have a moment in the pre Christmas bustle a review would be appreciated._**


	26. Chapter 26: The Bystander

**Thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and especially to those who took the time to review. Sorry to have taken so long to update and happy New Year.** I** think this character is the spiritual twin of 'Disgusted Tunbridge Wells'. **

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Dear Sir or Madam

I am writing to express my dissatisfaction relating to the handling of events at my local market place on Saturday last.

As you are no doubt aware members of the public were prevented from entering the entire area for a period of some hours. We only discovered this when a very offensive young gentleman barred our normal route, only vouchsafing the reason for this peremptory decision after I had made several protests.

Despite his excuse, which was that a film company were doing some location shooting for a new drama, I still saw no obvious reason as to why I should not proceed since I only wished to purchase an item from one of the outer stalls. My contention being that at worst I would look as if I was an extra. He proved unwilling to listen to any reasonable argument whatsoever and instead chose to block my way while issuing me with the instruction to 'push off Grandad'. He further compounded this offence by refusing to give me his name when I informed him of my intention to report him to his superiors.

Leaving aside this thoroughly unwarranted rudeness I would like an explanation as to why no warning of closure was given to regular customers at least a week in advance. In addition no signs were displayed regretting the inconvenience caused. This suggests to me a total disregard for the welfare of the public at large.

This justification of this last comment was confirmed by an incident that I witnessed from a distance when a respectable looking woman, who had apparently strayed into the restricted area, was accosted by a pair of men. Although the woman was quite clearly planning to exit the market she was prevented from doing so. My wife, who was also present and who can verify everything I saw, was horrified to see one of the men snatch the woman's phone from her. I assume this was to check that she had not obtained any authorised footage. That might just be acceptable, what followed however was not. Although I did not see them do so I can only assume that one or both men assaulted the woman, my grounds for believing this being the audible shriek of pain she emitted some seconds after the men approached her. This distressing incident seems to have been noticed by one of the actors, dressed as an army officer, who emerged from a van to remonstrate with the men. It would seem that he, like myself, was prevented from coming to her aid as we helplessly watched the two culprits hustle her away. I would describe their entire demeanour thorough out as menacing while the woman was plainly upset and confused.

To have treated an innocent member of the public in such as way is indefensible and I therefore have reported this matter to the police, along with the near assault upon myself. I have been assured that my complaint will be passed to the appropriate authorities and I therefore expect you to make amends by cooperating fully with the attempt to bring the aggressors to justice.

Yours faithfully

Charles Hopwood (Mr)

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**Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be appreciated.**


	27. Chapter 27: Harry's Operational Notes 13

**Thanks to those who read the last chapter**** and the reviews were much appreciated. **

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**1.30pm 6 May 2002**. The operation proved successful. No loss of life occurred and Mary Kane was detained by Tom Quinn and Danny Hunter as per regulations. Note: this very nearly was not the outcome due to the Bomb Squad's jamming equipment experiencing a limited fail. I will ask for a full report and examination. Mary Kane has been removed, but due to the presence of a number of interested spectators on the perimeter it was deemed unwise to escort her to the holding cells at Thames House. Currently my junior officers are restoring the market to its normal form, removing equipment and thanking the stall holders for their assistance

Helen Flynn has been apprised of the current situation. Although she has been authorised to inform Diane Sullivan that she will be able to go home shortly, subject to a debrief, Ms Sullivan must also be advised that she will be unable to leave the safe house until the usual procedures have been completed. This may occasion a delay as the Welfare department need to meet her with a view to offering counselling and assessing any requirements for longer term support.

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_Capture effected, no thanks to HM Government who, despite the significant risk to British citizens, in the first instance wanted Mary Kane caught and deported and then followed through that dereliction of care by failing to produce the cash to supply the army with reliable equipment. Two more seconds and __we'd have been able to admire our very own crater in Central London, thus saving money on the space exploration programme. No__w of course, after we've finally caught the woman, we'll be subjected to a peremptory demand that we hand her over forthwith, at least that 's what I assume. I can't be certain since at present I'm incommunicado._

_The DG, who like me knows nothing about the latter part of the operation - that's the bit where Tom instead of bringing Mary Kane in goes mildly rogue - decided to call an emergency meeting of all the Section Heads. I'm sure it was a complete coincidence that that he sent out the message ten minutes after Ms Kane was lifted. Stuck in a sound proofed, de-bugged, reinforced room whose entrance is guarded by specialist protection officers I will be unable to respond to any queries sent to the Grid – such a shame I can't co-operate, I must remember to sound sorrowful when I finally emerge blinking into the sun or, considering the windbags I'll be immured with, more likely find myself disgorged into the dusk of a London evening. _

_It transpires that the DG was also less than delighted with the decision of our political masters in prioritising the appeasement of the Cousins above the safety of our own public, especially after I'd pointed out to him that if we didn't get the whole network pulled down we could be heading for a crusade by the Christian religious right, of which the most that could be said was that it provide a wonderful counter balance to the threat we are already facing from the martyrs for Allah. I'm not the man's greatest fan but I'll do him the justice of admitting that, like me, he's been long enough in this game to know that in the event of an explosion the shit would mysteriously slide off the Teflon coated Honourable members on its inevitable journey towards the dump it site that is the Security Services doorstep. And that will be another charge to lay at Ms Kane's door. Alongside bombing, conspiracy, murder, and manslaughter she's made Harry Pearce owe the DG one. I hate being beholden – experience suggests that the eventual repayment costs would embarrass even Scrooge and Marley._

_Still I am grateful for the time the DG has bought us. No one on the Grid, not even Zoe, knows where Tom planned to take Mary. Danny will also be absent having have been ordered to act as wingman while Tom tries to wring the information we need out of our uninvited and unwanted guest. I don't envy him the task. Trying to crack those with a martyrdom complex is a tough call since they don't walk to the same beat as most of us. I'll bet she quotes the Bible at him – they always do that - accompanied by a self- righteous smirk that implies this is the last and only word. By comparison it'll make listening to the DG and (groan) Olivier Mace a positive pleasure. The suffering I endure for my country knows no bounds._

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**_Thanks for reading and if you have a moment or two a review would be appreciated. We're very near the end now - about another four chapters I think. _**


	28. Chapter 28: The Bomber

_**Thanks to those who read and again extra thanks to those who reviewed. It is greatly appreciated. This chapter carries a health warning. Attempting to get inside Mary Kane's head can seriously damage your mental health. **_

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Our father who art in heaven

I glorify your name and obey your teaching that life is sacred.

Karen Lynott died but she was a handmaiden of Satan

And all such should perish.

She chose to ignore your will in creating life.

Those who kill the unborn destroy your creation.

They kill without mercy and must be punished

Yea even unto the third and fourth generation.

An eye for an eye is your justice

I have striven to carry out your will and you have blessed me

After all these years I carry a child in my womb

And will bring him or her up to glorify your name.

I pray that you will forgive me for what I am about to do.

To survive to make my child an instrument of thy word I must betray those who trusted me.

I know you will understand what I do because St Peter denied Christ three times

But then he became a true follower and martyr

And I have never denied you.

Those who I must betray will be punished in this world

But as they face their persecution their faith will shine out as a beacon.

Those of us who fight for your word are few.

But many will see our cause as just and we will emerge glorious in victory.

I loved my husband but he was as good as dead.

When I slept with another man it was not for lust.

It was to ensure that your word would be carried out.

Even then I was worshipping you and was an instrument of your will.

I pray for Paul – I know his soul will with you as he enters into his glorious martyrdom.

He is a good man and deserving of your praise.

I will promise never to forsake your word.

Those of us who follow your light will triumph over the forces of darkness

For the righteous will flourish in thy kingdom which we will make on earth.

My child was a sign that you have truly blessed me and for that I give thanks

Lord have mercy on me a sinner

And when my time has come gather me to thy bosom.

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_**Thanks for reading. If you have a moment a review would be gratefully received.**_


	29. Chapter 29: Harry's Operational Notes 14

**Thank you my kind reviewers for not accusing me of heresy in the last chapter. Back to Harry's views on the matter.**

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**22.30 pm 6 May 2012**. The interrogation of Mary Kane, held in a safe house pending the completion of the remaining extradition paperwork, has confirmed the names and involvement of the group responsible for the Liverpool bombing, also given are the contact details of those who supplied the explosives and related bomb making equipment. Even more satisfactorily she has been persuaded to disgorge the details of her embryonic nationwide organisation dedicated to aggressive action in support of the unborn.

Mary Kane's extradition and handover to the CIA was completed at 10.00pm our time. Despite our request that she be transferred to a state that does not impose the death penalty was refused and she has been returned to Florida where a capital sentence has already been passed down.

As MI5 can only detain but not arrest the information relating to offences in the UK has now been handed over to Special Branch. This was following a preliminary check by Malcolm Wynne Jones to confirm that the information given by Ms Kane was accurate. The arrests of the main perpetrators are imminent with others to follow as her network is taken down. Given its size and potential for mayhem and murder this will take up considerable time and manpower. The paper work to support the subsequent prosecutions will be forwarded after tomorrow's debrief. It will be sometime before we will know whether the prosecution will require any of my officers to give evidence in court.

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_For once we have obtained the Holy Grail of intelligence work: a result in which everyone, more or less, got what they wanted. Other than Ms Kane and her associates who, with luck and a sensible jury, will get what they deserve. Normally I'd be concerned about the identity of the presiding judge when the Liverpool trio are finally hauled into the dock. I know from bitter experience the twisted decisions the bench can produce regarding human rights. This time I don't think I have to worry. Those members of the judiciary who given half a chance to channel their inner Judge Jeffries will certainly disapprove of murder. As for the liberal tendency somehow I don't see their representatives hurrying to defend the views of a set of religious fanatics whose ultimate aim is to deny women their reproductive choices. I'm somewhat less happy about having been forced to send Ms Kane to her death. I'm salving my compromised conscience with the thought that given the nature of the American system with the appeals, the delays, and in her case the pregnancy, she stands a good chance of dying from old age before the electric chair comes calling._

_In the current moment, while Ms Kane wings her way back to captivity in the land of the free, Special Branch are masterminding several arrests under the efficient aegis of Keith Burns. Having obtained his declared wish to get his hands on the bastards who killed Karen and Sarah Lynott he's taken charge with alacrity. With a young child of his own at home this was personal._

_So after a gruelling few days we can all go home and sleep comfortably in our beds, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow is another day._

_New day, new threat._

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**_Thanks for reading and reviews are always appreciated. _**


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